The Enigma and the Scholar
by Camolot the Creator
Summary: Before time or space there was Arceus, He who built the Forge and lit the Spark, that which all of creation stems from. Now Arceus is gone, the Forge reduced to smoldering ashes, the Spark long lost. If there is to be any hope, the Spark must be guided to relight the Forge and return Arceus and his retinue, those gifted with power, to their rightful places.
1. Chapter 1

It was still early in the day when I approached the small lake; the sun had not been long over the horizon, and the layer of fog had yet to completely clear from between the trees, reducing them to light shadows in the mist, drifting in and out of my vision like specters. It was the time of day that I most enjoyed, and was most beneficial to my daily meditation, given that most Pokemon were either not yet awakened or simply disliked the dampness of early air, before sunlight baked the moisture out.

I traversed the mossy forest terrain with little noise or evidence of my passing: long practice and many hard lessons learned while hunkering down in a bolt hole had impressed upon me the utmost importance of hiding my trail, especially when said trail would lead back to my current abode. I had lost a few homes- and many good books- to the careless leaving of tracks, and I was a bit too fond of my current home to up and abandon it now. I was aware this was rather a moot point for any trainer possessing of a Pokemon with an adequate sense of smell, but it made me feel more secure to know that I left little visible trace in my wake.

I passed the final tree, an old oak scarred by years of activity, and entered a clearing right on the shore of the body of water. There, on the other side of a small meadow, was a collection of flat stones, deposited here perhaps hundreds of years ago, sheared out of the small cliff that lined one edge of the shore by the indefatigable process of weathering distended over an incredible length of time. Wisps of mist still curled from the surface of the water, creating a scene that was majestic, almost magical in it's serenity; as always, the perfect spot for an early meditation. I crossed the meadow and slid atop one of their number, the stone giving no protest and making no sound as I put my weight upon it. Satisfied, I pulled my legs up over the edge and folded them, placing one paw atop each knee and closing my eyes, relaxing and allowing myself to be absorbed into the morning silence.

Silence that was almost immediately shattered, because of course it was.

"Hey!"

The voice startled me slightly, as I had not been expecting any sort of interaction this day- in fact, I had purposefully avoided any sort of elongated contact with the locals ever since I had come into the area. As such, I had no real idea as to who, exactly, was addressing me; they could have lived right next to me for the past three and a half months and I wouldn't have recognized their voice. The first hint that this was no local, however, was that the voice had been decidedly human-

Oh.

… Well, shit.

Human voice, addressing a Pokemon directly, meant one thing: trainer. Being a reasonably strong Lucario myself, I had run into-and subsequently defeated-my share of trainers; it was a fact of life for many strong Poke that we would be chased by humans attempting to claim our power for themselves. Mostly, I found these human aggressors aggravating at best, infuriating at worst; they desperately attempt capture, only for them to fail at my hands, after which I would pack up and move yet again. It was not as though I could not deal with said trainers, it was more of I had more important goals to accomplish than dealing with a steady tide of humans looking for status and prestige. This latest human, whoever he was-the voice was decidedly male-simply meant that I had to defeat his companions and move yet again-an unfortunate outcome, as I had been enjoying the aesthetics of this particular area. I sighed in a deep, dramatic way, attempting to give vent to the feelings of aggravation and frustration that rose in response to this newcomer, before swinging my legs off my stone, standing and looking in the direction the voice had come from.

Surprisingly, the- boy? Teen?-did not exactly resemble a trainer. Though it was difficult to tell, both due to distance and the ankle-length black coat he was wearing, he did not appear to be carrying pokeballs, or even a trainer's belt. His attire did not exactly match any sort of typical trainer, either-the coat could be attributed to a Dark-type trainer, but that hypothesis did not exactly fit with the tee-shirt emblazoned with flame decals, nor the off-black cargo pants. Generally, he appeared to be either an amateur or, strangely, not a trainer at all. Exactly why someone like that would walk right up and speak to me was either a gross display of overconfidence, or incredible ignorance.

He approached closer, showing absolutely no signs of worry or fear over the fact that I was probably strong enough to break him like a twig without real effort. In fact, he seemed almost cheerful, and came closer without any sign of hesitation before making a simple statement, which somehow was the most confusing thing I'd heard in many, many years.

"Hey." He said simply; shouting was unnecessary at this juncture. "Wanna fight?" He then got into a stance, lowering his center of gravity and raising his arms.

I was completely taken aback; aghast, startled, surprised-however you wanted to say it, this was not the outcome I was expecting. I stood there processing his question for a full three seconds before I even realized that he actually intended to fight me HIMSELF, without even assistance from Poke allies. At this point, I was deciding whether to call him insanely stupid or stupidly fearless.

"Tch…" I murmured; I'd end this with the first blow, then begin moving to a new place, preferably a few miles away. I snapped into a quick stance, then lashed out with one paw, covering the short distance between us with that strike which was sure to be soft enough to just knock him out without causing any sort of egregious harm; after all, I didn't want anyone to be hunting me down as a "rampant danger" or something like that.

To my shock, the blow didn't land; my now-smiling opponent simply moved out of the way of it while simultaneously grabbing my arm and spinning, throwing me a couple yards. I quickly used one of my paws to flip myself over, landing on my feet, where I saw him rushing at me, wearing a grin that was practically ghastly as he did. I redirected his first strike, noting that there was surprising force behind it, then delivered two punches of my own, one of which dodged and one of which he actually caught full with his forearm. Instead of breaking instantly, his arm actually weathered the blow, stopping all the force of the strike. I was now quickly coming to the conclusion that this person was not normal in any way, shape or form.

"Sorry, but I need to end this here." I used Extreme Speed to flash-step behind him, intending to land a light blow against the back of his skull, knocking him out, only for him to dodge again and taking the hit to the shoulder instead.

"Mnnn…" I grunted in frustration, then tried to chase him down again, going instead for a frontal approach and launching a short barrage of strikes. To my continued shock, he somehow managed to block, dodge or otherwise negate every attack I threw at him, grinning like a maniac the whole while. I growled aloud, launching another punch, this one faster than any that had preceded it.

His grin, which was now almost unsettling in it's width, widened a little before he ducked under the punch entirely before lashing out and striking me full in the stomach. I let out a short "Whoof!" as the air was knocked out of my lungs, and I was thrown backwards for a few feet before barely recovering, sliding to a stop on my feet. I gasped a few times, attempting to recover, then noticed that my opponent was completely gone; I wondered for a second where he could be, then something incredibly hard and strong hit me square in the back. I desperately stumbled a few steps, spinning in the process and finding him standing there, hands in his pockets and a single foot, which had apparently been what had hit me, raised. I grit my teeth a little; I should not have been taking so many blows from a mere human, though, to my credit, he was far faster and stronger than I could have anticipated. I was done, frustrated, and it was clear that normal strikes wouldn't work.

I clenched my right paw, a familiar tingling sensation working its way down towards my palm as I charged a ball of aura in it. Just as it finished growing to an adequate size, I snapped my arm up and launched it towards him; the blue-and-white ball of energy rocketed right at his chest, leaving a trail of sparks in the air as it did. For one second, I had won; I was so sure that whatever he was, he would not be able to weather such a blast. Again, he shocked me by simply holding up a hand and CATCHING the sphere, which exploded in his palm, surrounding him in a cloud of dust and swirling mist. I tensed and watched the cloud, hackles raised as if some part of me expected him to come running out unharmed to continue the fight.

One second passed.

Another.

Three. Four. Five…

I relaxed; if he had still been conscious, he would have surely attacked me by now, meaning that I could finally get home and begin moving. Really, he had been rather a fascinating subject of study, as a human that could fight almost on par with a Poke, but I suppose this result was inevitable. I began turning away, intending to return to my current home, then halted and spun when I heard a series of quick footsteps. I saw him there, fist swinging right at my head and smile fully intact, then nothing. f

Blackness.


	2. Chapter 2: Introductions

I made a sharp intake of breath as I woke up, then groaned as every part of me ached in protest. I sat up slowly, inhaling sharply, pain and soreness arcing up and down my spine as I did. There was a moment of post-unconsciousness bewilderment as I attempted to put together the pieces of memory and remember exactly why I hurt so much; then, I remembered. And I wished I hadn't. I quickly glanced around, attempting to determine my current status; if I was in a Center I was screwed, it was over: however, it appeared that, instead, I was back home.

Home for me was a small, concrete pillbox built into the side of the hill, a leftover from when the war had spread to this region. When I had first moved in, the original defenses had still been here and working, having been abandoned by their users when the war moved south. Each side had devastated the other's supply lines into the area, leaving both armies dependent on local food sources. When even these had depleted they had moved on, and I, in turn, had moved in. Unfortunately, this provided me with further bewilderment, not answers; the only reason that the human would have wanted to fight me was to capture me, and it did not appear that he had. I was unsure exactly what that meant, but-

"Took you long enough."

I twitched and quickly turned towards the origin of the voice; my former opponent was sitting against one of the walls, casually watching me with his arms folded behind his head. I glanced him over, reading his body language, a skill so painstakingly learned from so many books, and noted that he was completely relaxed and calm, not appearing to regard me as a threat at this time. Whether this was due to the fact that he knew he would win if we fought or he simply didn't think I'd attack him now, I was unsure.

"What the hell do you want?" I muttered, almost to myself, more thinking aloud than anything. It was rather a worthless gesture anyway, considering-

"Not particularly sure what I want, sunshine; why don't you give me some clues?" He replied.

At this point, it didn't even surprise me. Nothing surprised me. I was freaking king of unsurprised mountain, home of the un-surprise-able Vikings.

"You can understand me, then." I said, more of a statement than a question, though he deigned to answer anyway.

"Should I not be able to?" I looked him over: his question seemed to be in earnest, and he looked to be surprised himself at the mere idea that he really shouldn't be able to. At all.

Those that understood the language of Poke were far and few between, but they were not unheard of; before the war, they had generated large amounts of money and fame for themselves as Pokémon Whisperers, able to solve problems between trainers and their Pokémon, or some such garbage. When the fighting had broken out, they had all been drafted for the war effort and used to command, as well as receive data from, the Poke section of the intelligence branches. It seemed strange that one faction or another hadn't already picked him up for their own ends yet, probably thanks in no small part to his obviously monstrous strength.

"No, not really." I replied simply. He seemed to process this for a moment, then seemed to dismiss the line of thought with a shrug. Still, there was one topic in particular that I wished to broach with him, given that he was willing to answer my questions as I had answered his, though vaguely. "So…" I began.

"'So' what?"

"So… Where's my Pokeball?" I replied, almost cringing as I said it.

He raised his eyebrows. "Pokeball?" he asked simply.

I grimaced; if I had to deal with this for the rest of my life, then I'd rather hunt down all the ordinance I had cleaned out of this place and, well… Use it for its intended purpose. "Yes, Pokeball. You did capture me, right?"

He seemed to think for a moment, rolling his answer around in his mouth for a good long while, giving real thought and determination to his final answer, an answer that had far more bearing on my existence than he would ever know-

"No, I didn't."

You know what, I wasn't even surprised. This was completely unsurprising. I was the LEAST surprised that I had ever been in my entire Arceus-damned life; in fact, I was even LESS surprised than I had been previously. Now I was Emperor Unsurprised of the Unsurprising Mountain Range, lord of the mighty Vikings Who Cannot be Surprised, AND the freaking POPE of the Order of the Mundane and Unsurprising. Mostly, however, I was just done; this entire extremely short conversation had worn me down to the point that I couldn't even care what this… Person… Had to say.

Still, everything about him rang odd with me; something about everything he did and said was just a little bit off from what was expected. He hadn't even made an attempt at captured me, for starters, when Lucario like myself were an extremely rare sight, especially in these parts. Then, there was the fact that he had not just DEFEATED me, but soundly beat me. In HAND to HAND. He had moved so fast that I could have sworn he was using Quick Attack or even Extreme Speed, and his last blow had been hard enough to qualify as a Brick Break. He had weathered blows he had no business even SURVIVING, up to and including my Aura Sphere, and had simply kept on coming with dogged, indomitable determination. And, on top of that, he understood Poke, a talent which, while relatively rare, was not unheard of. Almost unwillingly, I began to question his status and existence.

He was strangely dressed, in the manner of, as I had noted before, a Dark-type trainer, with a long, black coat that reached almost down to his ankles. However, the flame t-shirt seemed to imply Fire-type, and the off-black cargo pants implied a Hiker or Climber, making him a mismatched hodge-podge of THREE different trainer types. All of this was not even mentioning his complete lack of anything resembling a Pokeball or a companion of any sort. He had challenged me directly, without hesitation, and had invalidated the only reason I could think of behind such a challenge, then had beaten me soundly with a series of Poke techniques. A human learning Poke techniques was, like the ability to understand Poke speech, not unheard of, but was typically limited to normal and fighting-type moves. While Extreme Speed was a Normal-type move, I had not heard nor read any sort of evidence of a human learning it, especially not to the degree that he had, even confusing me. He had come away from stopping my Aura Sphere with his hand alone, and had seemed completely unfazed by any of my strikes, even the ones that, by all means, should have rendered him instantaneously unconscious. If he had been a Poke, I would have labelled him as a monster of an opponent.

To actually understand this confusion, a background of sorts was needed; I recalled a passage from _Poke and You: A Guide to Translators_ , which this human seemed to have used as part of a make-shift armrest.

People who understood Poke speak were generally known as Poke Translators, in modern times as well as past. They are relatively rare, with only a few existing here and there, but they are not legendary, common enough to run their own businesses centered around their strange ability, caused by what was apparently a rare connecting of neurons in the speech centers of their brains; because of this, the ability often ran in families, and some were quite famous for it. These families often spent their time hiring themselves out as translators to the wealthy and normal trainers alike, while others became some of the best trainers in recent history.

There was one certain thing, however: every single Translator in existence was logged into a registry at the age of four, typically the age at which their abilities began to manifest. Such registries were widely available to the public of both nations, even during the war. In fact, as I could see from here, one of the books in the stack the human was examining now was a version from approximately five years ago. Given that this person, whoever he was, was not in a registry that I had memorized, and he was quite a far bit older than eight or nine, it was safe to assume one of a short list of options.

One, his abilities had either never been noticed, which was highly unlikely to say the least.

Two, he had never been approached in an official capacity by any sort of government entity that would have to do with registry of Translators, again unlikely to the point of impossibility.

Or another third option which I could not yet determine.

"Maybe he's an alien." I chuckled quietly to myself. It wasn't funny, and the laughter had a tinge of dementedness about it even to my ears.

At this, he seemed to cock his head a little, a look of not-insubstantial confusion on his face. "Why would that be your assumption?" Was his query. I searched his face for anything denoting any sort of mischief or teasing, but strangely detected nothing but honest curiosity. At this point, I decided that I had given up on anything resembling frustration.

"Well, let's list the reasons, shall we?" I swung my legs down off of the cushioned slab, but did not yet attempt to stand; I would save that effort for later. "You're incredibly- in fact, INSANELY- fast and strong, your reaction time seems to be as high as mine. You don't even seem to comprehend the idea of a Pokeball, you don't know that you really shouldn't be able to understand my speech… And yet, you can't be a feral Translator child, because you walked out of that forest clothed in near-pristine clothing, which also disproves any idea that you might be a trainer. This doesn't even begin to mention your complete lack of any sort of normal trainer equipment, or the fact that your outfit is rather an eclectic collection of the standard wardrobes of many types of trainers." As I listed them off, I tapped my digits, making a slightly frustrated expression when I ran out. He seemed to be listening emphatically, which somehow worsened everything about this situation. "In fact, you don't even seem to know what a Trainer IS, let alone what they even DO." I stopped for a breath.

"So, then, what is a trainer?" I searched his face for the- third? - time since this strange conversation had started, and found the same results, though now tinged with a note of honest curiosity.

In all seriousness, I wasn't even sure how to answer that question. Trainers had been, and were, such an integral and assumed part of life up to this point that I now realized that neither I, nor anyone I had met, had really put words to what they were. More accurately, my idea of a Trainer was more a jumble of feelings, emotions and raw nerves than anything else, something I could not properly explain given this small amount of time. I was truly at a loss for words, and so I gave up.

"I-eh-you-never mind." I rubbed my eyes, suddenly feeling exceptionally terrible for this early in the day. "You are an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in headaches and bewilderment." At this point, I wasn't even entirely convinced that he was real, that I hadn't just had an unfortunate collision with a particularly hardy branch. After all, I didn't think it was physically possible for anyone to be this… Frustrating? Aggravating? I rolled the words around in my mind, but they didn't seem to quite apply to the bundle of emotion directed at this human.

"Enigma…" He repeated, rolling it around in his mouth for reasons that I had no real way of fathoming; Then, he seemed to come to an internal agreement. "Yeah, that sounds good. Call me that."

Okay. There are a limited amount of ways a sentient being can be shocked, and a limited amount within any given time frame. At this point, I was pretty much checked out; I couldn't care less, and frankly didn't believe that I should care until I had an actual chance to sit down and sort all of this nonsense out for myself. Arbitrarily, there and then, I decided on breakfast. This was clearly the most rational and sane response to the situation at hand, most possibly due to ancient connections between proper cognitive functioning in the early morning and eating something. That, and I just needed something, ANYTHING, to do other than contemplate this… Enigma.

That could have been an ironic pun, but I was really far past caring at this point.

I slid forward off the makeshift bed and onto my feet, a moment of soreness slowing me for a second as I did. I ignored the sparks of pain -I had felt worse before- and shifted my weight entirely onto my legs, stretching a moment before continuing in the general direction of a room towards the back of the small bunker that had once served as a small mess hall for what I assumed were officers. The cooking and eating implements had still been whole and undamaged when I had arrived, covered in a very thin layer of dust. Now the place was furnished with clean implements and a variety of normal kitchen appliances, which had been rather a pain to handle given that the bunker had no direct power feed from a city.

The Human-Enigma, I supposed; an idiotic non name-followed me into the room, carrying a mid-sized book that I recognized as an atlas, which I had picked up the last time I had visited a human city, about three years ago or so. He had it open to a world map, which was in-date enough that it was probably still relatively correct regarding the current alliances and contested zones. He seemed to be studying it intently, though, as was now becoming the norm, I could not seem to divine a reasoning for his behavior. At this point, I was seriously considering simply pretending he just wasn't there, and seeing where that got me.

I selected a small frying pan from the eclectic collection of cookware, checking the liquid battery's charge level- about three-quarters; enough- before switching on the electric stove and setting the pan down. It occurred to me how ridiculous this situation appeared to be, but I dismissed that thought: there was breakfast to be made. I opened a tiny refrigerator, more suited to a minibar than to a kitchen, and took out a small, rectangular shoe box that held pidgey eggs packed in paper towels, items both salvaged from various parts of the bunker.

I used the time waiting for the heating coils to reach the proper temperature cracking the eggs into a small glass bowl, whisking them to mix the yolk and white. Enigma placed the atlas over his left forearm with the book facing into it, holding it with his left hand while he watched me semi-intently.

"I have the barest of sneaking suspicions that you might actually be able to recognize the production of food when you see it." I stated dryly. This Enigma person shrugged non-committedly, paying more attention to the food-in-the-making than my words. "I take this to mean that whatever you are, you eat food at least."

"If that is food, then very much, yes."

I sighed and cracked the rest of the eggs into the bowl, noting that at least I wouldn't have to get more, considering my current situation. Given that this was inward monologue, I felt no real reason to explain that statement. The unspoken joke made me feel a little better, but not by much. Really, the entire situation was far from sane; I was preparing eggs for myself and a person who had fought me not that long ago, then dragged my unconscious body back here. Frankly, all of it in its entirety was rather insane, and I was hanging on to the weak, fringe hope that this was some sort of very strange dream that I was having. However, given that I had clearly and logically arrived at this conclusion through a reasonable line of thought, that possibility was looking less and less likely by the second.

"So, what might I call you?"

I resisted the urge to give a sarcastic or snarky answer, mainly for fear that he might think I was serious.

"Vy." I replied. "Means 'Steel'." The name had been a joke once, a very long time ago. It had not been for a very long time.

"Hm." Enigma nodded. "Nice to meet you then, Vy." He extended his hand as I put the bowl down, obviously expecting me to take it. I debated for a moment, then decided that attempting to crush his fingers might be a cathartic experience; he owed me that much. I took his hand with my paw.

"I wish that I could say it was likewise."


	3. Chapter 3: Converse

I poured the eggs into the hot pan, listening to the faint hiss of the heat transference between liquid eggs and hot steel, and glanced at Enigma over my shoulder.

After our small exchange of words, he had retreated back into the books he had retrieved from the other room, pouring over its and absorbing its contents. Right now, he seemed focused on the countries of this portion of the world, as well as their relationships. As I watched, he turned the page, and emblazoned at the head of a long series of paragraphs and images was a title:

The Forge Wars; A Summary of Five Hundred Years of Cold and Hot Wars.

I turned back to the eggs, moving them around with a plastic spatula sheathed in silicone rubber.

"So, what's your part in this?"

I half-turned rather quickly, startled at the sudden and unexpected question. Without thinking, I asked:

"My part in what?"

Internally, I cursed myself; it was rather obvious what aims he inquired toward, intentions that I would rather not encourage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him gesture to the page before him.

"All of this. The so-called 'Forge Wars'. It states here that they extended across much of the continent, and your home bears significant resemblance towards curtained referenced military structures, so I assume that you have had at least some sort of contact with the fighting."

Almost unconsciously, I ran a digit across the fur on my forearms, feeling the ridges hidden underneath, before shaking myself and resuming my care for the food. "I would… Rather not speak of that."

"Oh? And why not?"

I grimaced. "Oh, daddy was a soldier, and the bad men killed him- why do you think?!" I snapped, slamming my fist into the metal surface of the stove as I did so. A minute passed, and I noticed that I was shaking; I took a breath to calm myself, then returned to stirring the eggs.

"Ah. I'm… Sorry." I gave him a look over my shoulder; remorse was etched on his features, and I had the feeling that he was, once again, honest. Frustration with his consistent honesty mixed with just a bit of guilt over my caustic response. Silencing my internal disquiet, I responded with a non-committal shrug; he really had no right to inquire, I rationalized, being that we had really just… Well, 'met' wasn't the right word, really: in the aspect of our introduction, vocabulary failed me.

There was silence for a long minute or so before he began turning pages again, the slight sound of paper against paper, and of the eggs faintly hissing, the only sounds in the room. There was a feeling, however slight, of awkwardness about the room, an awkwardness that I had no real desire to clear, especially if clearing the air meant that I would have to speak with him again. As the silence stretched from seconds into minutes and the eggs solidified into semi-solid, fluffy lumps of goodness, I debated back and forth speaking once more.

The eggs solidified completely and, while retrieving two scratched steel plates from a cupboard, the half of me insisting that it might be a good idea finally won over. It would after all, that half argued, be irresponsible to send such an obviously unintentionally insensitive person out into the world as it was, even if he showed a freakish amount of ability. I placed the two plates next to the stove, picking up the pan and using the spatula and gravity to encourage the resulting pieces from the cookware, then set the pan back down, turning off the stove, and picking up the two plates while scooping two forks out of a nearby receptacle. Standing straight, dishes of food and appropriate silverware in hand, I took a breath and turned.

Enigma had turned back to the table, and was completely absorbed in his books yet again. Glancing at the page, I noted that he had now moved on to the chapters about the Hoenn and Sevii Island neutral coalitions. The specific page described how the Sevii Islands had declared their independence from Kanto and by extension the entire JUR by publicly decrying the Forge Wars, before making necessary alliances with Hoenn, the other neutral region in this part of the world. There was some mention of the minor conflicts that had occurred after, making the northern areas of the Sevii Islands a contested zone, before the JUR was engaged on their eastern front by the UA. Now fighting a war on two fronts and with their resources stretched as it was, the JUR had signed a ceasefire with the newly-anointed alliance and re-engaged the UA. After the conflict had ended and JUR troops had pulled out of the northern islands, Hoenn and the Sevii Islands had officially declared themselves the Hoenn-Sevii Neutral Coalition, forming both the third superpower in this part of the world, and eventually leaving them the only neutral party in the Forge Wars. For now, at least.

I set one of the plates to one side of an atlas, then skirted the left side of the table, swinging around the corner and sitting in the chair on that side, setting my plate down with a small rattle. Enigma gave his fork a puzzled look, turning it this way and that as if to glean its purpose from sight alone, and my own fork hung in the air as I observed. After a few seconds, he shot a glance at me: I made to act like I had not been watching him, hurriedly using the fork to slice off a piece of egg and spear it, quite the achievement considering my lack of… Specific digits.

Seemingly satisfied at my demonstration of the tool's proper use, Enigma returned his attention to the small pile of books, scooping eggs into his mouth at a prodigious rate as he did so. Again, I couldn't help but observe as he devoured the food: I would guess, from the strength, speed and ability that he had shown, that his calorie intake could rival even most poke, and here was at least some manner of evidence that supported that hypothesis.

Sensing my continued staring, Enigma glanced up again; I avoided eye contact with him, focusing on the fridge behind him. After a moment, he shrugged and returned to my food, and, after a moment, I returned to picking at what I had on my plate. Before I had gotten very far, however, he made a breathy sigh, shoving a practically sterilized plate away and pulling the book closer, flipping a single page as he did so. I started slightly at the sound, then smoothed my ruffled fur, stabbing the last chunk of cooked egg. The meal, as it was, now finished, I made to remove the plates. Enigma, noticing this, spoke.

"Ehm…"

I paused in mid motion.

"Really. Sorry about…" He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to finish the sentence.

I felt a number of conflicting emotions.

"It's-" I paused, then shook my head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

His expression tightened for a moment-was he reluctant to let this go? -before he seemed to come to an agreement. "Thanks." He finished.

I merely grunted non-committedly in response, clearing off the table and dumping the dishes in the stainless steel sink, the ceramic making a muted clatter against the metal. He seemed earnest enough with his apology, which made me wonder if he regretted crossing a line when he had no way of knowing of its existence. Perhaps he had crossed a similar line with someone before? I made note of that particular question for later. I left the dishes unwashed in the receptacle, as I suspected that my residency in this location might be coming to an end, and stepped to the door leading from the kitchen out to the sleeping quarters. I put my paw on the doorknob and made to turn it-

"Hey."

I paused, my grip loosening slightly.

"Look. I…" He hesitated. "… I can't stay here." I was unsure thus far why this was relevant to me. "I need to move on, and just from what I've read here-" I heard the faint sound of skin sliding against paper, and guessed that he was indicating his pile of open books "It's quite a large world to explore by oneself." His chair creaked. "So, I suppose what I've been getting at is… I want you to come with me."

I half-turned in surprise, and looked back at him. He was leaning back in his chair, the metal creaking as he stood it on two back legs, his arms crossed. I searched his face for anything: a note of amusement or of mischievousness, anything to tell me that he had not actually been serious in his offer, but there was nothing. Instead, his mouth formed a straight, creased line, and his eyes had a serious light about them.

My first reaction to the request was incredulity, and I nearly opened my mouth to refuse, to laugh, to express disbelief- but some part of me actually began considering it. After all, I would have to abandon this abode shortly anyway: I cycled hideaways almost constantly, and soon it would be too cold to stay here in the north. Most of my reasoning lay with the fact that there was no real reason NOT to accompany him. Traveling with a human would allow me to pass directly through cities and towns instead of taking lengthy routes to avoid them, and would shield me from the vigilant eyes of trainers and trappers. I had no desire to become the newest addition to a trainer's team, nor had Iany desire to be recruited against my will, so traveling with the Enigma did not, per say, run counterintuitive to my own goals. In fact, it would seem advantageous to accept the offer.

My gaze had drifted away from Enigma while I had considered his offer, and I now focused it back on him. He shifted in his seat as I made eye contact, obviously awaiting my response. Finally, I elected to speak.

"Fine. Give me-" I considered a moment. "Two hours. Give me two hours, then we may leave." I turned away, towards the other room, already forming a list of objects, items and supplies to gather, then paused and indicated the scattered novels and textbooks covering his half of the table. "I would be thankful if you returned at least most of those to their original positions."

He stood, pushing his chair back with the slight scraping of metal on concrete, his grin back in its former position. I frowned in response, seeking to appear disapproving of his levity, but he seemed not to notice as he swept a number of the thickly bound tomes off the table and into his arms. My tail twitched, and I turned back and continued into the sleeping quarters area, reluctantly admitting that I was near as eager to begin the journey as he was. Now risen from its slumber, my wanderlust itched with an almost unbearable tendency: I had had no contact with any human towns since Flora City, the closest of the large-scale inhabitances to my hideout in the south, had become one of the front-line holdings of the JUR.

As I moved into the sleeping area the door swung shut behind me, cutting off the sounds of Enigma gleefully cleaning off the table, plunging the room into silence. With a sigh, I glanced around, grimacing slightly at the state of the room. With my eventual trip south approaching, I had attempted to begin packing… Several times. The entire space was a mess of small personal items, spare pairs of shorts, a number of different books of varying sizes, and…

My breath caught for a moment and I averted my eyes. I could say that I was procrastinating, that I had no inkling of what to take, but those were excuses: here lay the real reason that I had not packed. I closed my eyes, steeling myself, then looked back. To an outside observer, the object would seem normal. A bandana, red, with a few holes with slight charring around their edges, but to me…

Almost reverently, I reached out, lifting the bandana off of its table, the only spot in the entire room not festooned with some item or another, and lifted it to my nose. However, I noted with an edge of sadness, it smelled only of the last time it had been washed, and of me. What I wouldn't give for…

I shook my head: this was not the time for such lines of thinking. I had already come close too many times today, and I could not afford another pass: I was not sure I would survive it. With a finality, I put my muzzle through the ring of fabric, pulling it back over my angular ears before it came to rest on my neck. I paused for a moment, stroking the fabric with one finger, before I shook my head and engaged the mess with a vengeance. A number of items, mostly small and light, and books, anything BUT small and light, went into an olive green Alice pack. Some shorts, a penknife, a lantern, rechargeable nickel cadmium batteries, solar charger-such things would be standard equipment for an experienced trainer, few as they were these days.

It was with no small sense of satisfaction that I sealed the last pocket, checking against holes or rents in the soft, worn fabric. Even with everything that I had placed in the pack, it seemed unnaturally deflated for a bag of its size: it was unlikely that I would load it to its usual weight. Instead, shouldering my bag as I did, I went to a storage locker in the corner, from which I removed a second bag of more-or-less the same time. I allowed myself one last look around the room, then took a swift breath in and walked through the door to the kitchen.

Enigma appeared to have completed his cleaning of the room, to a frankly surprising degree: even the pan that I had used previously had been scoured, the inside cleaned out with soap. I suspected that in my absence, Enigma had grown bored and had intended to keep busy. During his crusade, he appeared to have left the room.

I dropped the empty bag on the folding table, the fabric making a soft FWUMP as it landed, then began opening cabinets and selecting cookware. Here I brought a few items that I would have normally ignored to lighten my load: camp stove, a modest assemblage of cookware of varying types including the aforementioned breakfast pan, a number of implements intended for use in either the preparation or the consumption of food, and an ancient bottle of propane. I weighed the last item in my hand a moment, concentrating, before deciding that it had enough juice left in it that it was worth the extra weight. This was mainly of import because I wished to avoid unnecessary encumbrance between this hideaway and the nearest city, Evergreen, where we could purchase the remaining necessary supplies, gather news, and plan a travel route south that would allow us to avoid the front lines.

With these debatably unnecessary items-excluding the cookware, of course-out of the way, I filled some more space with a variety of supplies, both canned and not, and a large box of long-handled matches, with a butane lighter serving as a backup. Finally, I sealed the final pouch and stood back, pleased with my work. With a slight flourish, I lifted the slightly heavy bag off of the table and exited through a second door, the door we had first entered through. On the other side of the portal, a… Remarkable sight greeted me. Enigma was standing on a step stool and had, somehow, managed to acquire a feather duster, and honest-to-god feather duster, and was using it to dust the shelves while humming a small tune that I did not recognize, but seemed vaguely familiar.

"Hm-hmm hmm hmmm hm hm-hmm-" at this point, he seemed to notice my presence, going stock-still and shifting his stare between the feather duster and me, as if he had just realized what he was doing.

"Um-" was all he got out; before he could speak, the feather duster slipped out of his hands. He panicked, juggling the duster, just managing to catch it before the step stool he stood on slight out from under him, and he crashed backwards into a haphazard pile of books. I had… Great difficulty restraining my mirth. He lay among the tomes and receptacles of knowledge, wearing what had to be one of the most sheepish expressions I had ever witnessed. Once again restraining a laugh, I proffered my hand and he took it, offering a weak, embarrassed smile and a tiny laugh as he did so.

"Ah-heh…" He steadied himself, flushing lightly as he did. "I don't suppose that we could forget that this ever happened, could we…?"

Without offering an answer for fear of breaking down into hysterics, I placed the pack I was holding in his hands and walked past him, adjusting the straps of my bag as I did so. Without a word, I reached out and turned the lock of the submarine-like exit door, opening it, then stepped out into the light.


	4. Chapter 4: Footwork

As I exited the bunker, the noon-time sunlight momentarily blinded me after the darkness and artificial lighting of the bunker, which was not the most well-lit of places on the best of days. I shaded my eyes automatically, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light.

The area surrounding the outcropping of reinforced concrete might have once been clear, but it was now overgrown, nature having reclaimed what had once been roads and fences. Here and there, signs of human military presence still clung: here the remains of a chain link fence topped with barb wire, links rotted and pitted by rust and neglect. There, the remains of a small building, a guard post or a shed of some sort, the wood now moldering, the roof falling in. The entire structure tilted at a crazy angle, a situation no doubt made worse by the tree that seemed to have grown out of one of its corners.

The bunker itself had not seemed to fare any better, the concrete surface covered in moss and lichen, precisely why I had chosen this location. The only sign that the structure had been inhabited at any time in the last five years was a lack of rust around the frame of the bulkhead door, a direct result of my attempts to maintain the aperture and keep it in some semblance of working order.

With a slight sigh, I shifted the straps on my bag once again and moved off to what I judged to be the southeast, stretching as I did so. Enigma followed me out into the sun, inhaling through his teeth as the sunlight hit his eyes and wincing at the cracks produced as I moved my stiff joints.

"Alright." I said, then reached around my left side to the side pocket, from which I removed a battered box. It might have once been an olive green, but now the paint was mottled and inconsistent. Any number of scratches and small dents criss crossed the dull surface, but the screen came on as well as it ever had when the power button was depressed. After a moment, the device indicated our exact position down to around a foot or so. Enigma leaned over my shoulder, seemingly intrigued.

"What is that?"

I grunted. "Old military issue GPS device. Took this off a wrecked UA vehicle a few years ago, and they never took the older models off of the system. Had to do some fiddling to make it invisible to other units, but it was well worth it." As I spoke, I tapped a location a few miles north of the southern shores of the JUR, then typed in a few keywords. The device worked for a moment, then indicated a red line leading from our current location east across a large swath of land towards Evergreen, then south and through several different cities, tracing a path for us to follow.

"Ah." He hesitated. "What, exactly, does the acronym GPS stand for?"

"Global positioning system."

I sensed further questions gathering in him, but thankfully, he bit his tongue. I had no doubt that I would be subject to a vast number of questions come nightfall.

"Alright. Trainers and trappers don't often come into this area, owing to the large amounts of damage to the local population of Poke. Despite that, we may run across at least one or two while we're in this valley-" I indicated the depression that snaked east, then south. "Once we're out, however, I expect to run into far more. While no roads or paths into this valley are maintained, there is a Route that traces the northern ridge before continuing east, one of the many thoroughfares between Evergreen and Anderson lake to the north-west. Once on that Route, we'll follow it all the way to Evergreen, a route that I would normally avoid. As to trainers, if we should have the misfortune of stumbling across one, we'll either have to avoid or fight them." At this point, I switched the GPS off and placed it back into its pocket. "One thing you should know before we meet any trainers: do NOT make eye contact. I stress that very much. Eye contact is commonly accepted among trainers as a challenge, and delaying in order to battle someone gives that particular someone a very good chance to notice that you have no Pokedex, no pokeballs, are not giving me commands, or any one of a number of inconsistencies."

I placed one hand on an old log, coated with moss, and leaped over it.

"Some of these inconsistencies we may be able to dismiss as you being a new, inexperienced trainer," I continued, "but even the greenest trainers know how a trainer is meant to behave. You have none of this knowledge, and I cannot coach you in sustaining the illusion without arousing suspicion. The trainer will notice that you seem to be taking commands from your pokemon, or the trainer might notice your lack of equipment or any number of things, and the illusion crumbles.

"Thankfully, trainer etiquette and rules forbade forcing someone to fight, and we will be traveling on a well-used Route with many potential witnesses, so as long as you keep your head down we should be able to avoid most trouble. Any questions?"

He bit his lower lip. "These… Trainers. How many of them exist?"

I took a quick breath in and out, considering. "Well, not as many as there once were. Their numbers have suffered from slow attrition over the years, much of it due to the side-effects of the Forge Wars." I gestured to the surrounding woods, which were strangely quiet: here, a bird song. There, the half-hidden form of a bug Poke flitted through the trees. "The Poke living in these woods have been made casualties, been captured, or have fled against the looming battles. You will find similar areas from the southern shores to the northern ice packs: Poke population has decayed, and with it the number of new trainers."

I let out a small huff as I leapt to the crest of a small ridge, identifiable from the surrounding flora only by the break of green, revealing a stripe of brown. Enigma swung himself over the lip, landing in a crouch before standing and following behind, intent on what I was saying.

"It doesn't help," I continued, "that both sides of the conflict have taken to recruiting experienced or skilled trainers to be soldiers. Many of them die in combat, and further children who might have otherwise followed in their footsteps with Poke of their own have now become wary of a career that is as likely to lead to your eventual death as not. As a result, most of the trainers left are either too young or old to be recruited, or have otherwise been deemed too infirm to serve in a military capacity."

Enigma processed this information for a moment. "So, why are they recruiting from a group when it should be obvious that recruitment from said group would be detrimental to it?"

I shrugged, then ducked underneath a low-hanging branch wreathed in moss. "As frustrating as it is, their reasoning is relatively inscrutable." I kicked a stone, which clacked against a far tree. "For my part, I believe that they can recruit all the normal soldiers they want from the general population, which is nothing to sneeze at, believe me. No, I believe that what they want… Is officers, officers who can lead Poke and human alike. Good officers are hard to come by, and anyone with a talent for tactics is often hauled off to the military headquarters of his or her respective country, leaving few competent leaders to fill out the lower branches of the tree of command. Thus, the recruitment of people, trainers, who have experience leading and commanding a team of Poke. The Gyms are not much more than glorified military testing and training facilities now…"

"Gyms?"

I let out a breath through my nostrils.

It was a few hours before the incessant questions had petered out. Mostly, I was glad for the silence, and my companion seemed to be enjoying the deep woods quite a bit. I observed that the forest was not as devoid of fauna as I had previously assumed: shadows flicked between the trees, the occasional pair of eyes examined us from the tree tops. I took a deep

breath in, then halted in my tracks.

"What?" he whispered.

"I don't…" I sniffed the air again. "… Oil. Oil and exhaust fumes." My ears twitched, swiveling like radar dishes as I attempted to pick up any ambient sounds. What little Poke activity had been in the woods around us seemed to have vanished, replaced by a low rumble that was growing slowly louder. I pulled the GPS out of its side pocket, flicking the power switch.

The screen glowed to life, the small device coming out of sleep mode for a second before displaying a map of the surrounding area.

"Alright, the roads just a few hundred feet in that direction." I pointed forward, and glanced that way: however, the flora clustered in clumps and rough circles was too thick to properly see through, and I was unable to catch even a cursory glimpse of any evidence of human habitation or activity through the brush and plant life.

I fixed Enigma with a look: to my surprise, he looked slightly anxious. His facial expression was just the slightest touch twisted, and he shifted from foot to foot, generally giving the atmosphere of, well, anxiety. I blinked, then shook my head slightly, glancing away again as I did so.

"What I told you and what I explained should hold well enough, but I would still recommend keeping conversations with anyone on the road short, simple and vague. Try not to rouse suspicions any more than is necessary."

Enigma nervously cracked his knuckles, then stepped in front of me, as if leading. I followed directly behind, ready to observe or even step in if need be. As we stepped out of the brush lining the edge of the pavement, Enigma first and myself following almost in his shadow in order to maximize him as cover, a single vehicle blazed by. The white pick-up truck, which looked to have seen better days and, indeed, appeared to have been patched together from several vehicles of differing paint jobs, disappeared down the two-lain asphalt at a rate that I suspected exceeded the set speed limit by quite a bit.

Besides that single vehicle, which had already disappeared around a bend farther down, the roadside was thankfully deserted. The gravel and bare dirt that were typically the sole residents of the edges of the pavement was interrupted only by an ancient, rusted call box, wires cut, rusted door hanging, with graffiti carved into every available orifice. The fact that vandals would go so far out of their way to scrawl on a metal box on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere both galled and impressed me. Having confirmed the lack of any challengers that might interfere with our continued journey, I shot a quick glance at Enigma.

Having seen the same things and come to the same conclusion as I had, some of the tension had left his form: however, he still seemed to possess a certain degree of wariness, his eyes darting back and forth attempting to pick out potential threats. As I examined him, we made a brief moment of eye contact: I blinked and turned my gaze back to the device, which I had yet to turn off. After checking my bearings against the device's compass, and double-checking with the position of the sun for good measure, I turned left down the road and began walking. Enigma, who had looked in the other direction down the road, glanced back, noticed I was leaving, and hurried to catch up. Remembering myself, I slowed for a moment, allowing Enigma to slip in front of me: to a trainer or a driver, we would look like the typical broke or stingy trainer and his Poke. Then, the thought occurred to me that there was absolutely no reason for us to walk. While I had walked every yearly journey there and back, occasionally stowing away on trains if I could help it, I now had a human companion and could, beyond a shadow of a doubt, pass as his Poke, though my confidence that Enigma might pass for a trainer under inspection was admittedly far less than I was comfortable with. Legitimately hitching a ride from a passing vehicle was no longer such a stretch, a fact that my legs were greatly thankful for. My mind made up on this point, I moved to walk besides Enigma instead of behind, the better to explain my idea and how we would go about it.

"Enigma-" I began.

"E."

I blinked and frowned. "What?"

He shot me a sideways glance. "Enigma is, I must admit, rather a mouthful. Simply E is far less… Cumbersome."

"E, then. I have-"

My ear twitched as I heard a car approaching. Hurriedly, I dropped back slightly to give the appearance that… E… Was leading, and that I was following. I shot a glance at the vehicle in question, but it was what appeared to be a four-doored van: to maintain the illusion that E was a trainer, we needed a two-doored pick-up truck with an empty bed. Thus, I let the vehicle pass un-signaled. As soon as it had vanished around the same bed the truck had gone around minutes earlier, I sped up slightly, catching up to E and drawing level with him.

"Anyway… I have a proposition to speed our journey, if your feet have no objections."

E turned his head in my direction. "Alright: you're the boss."

I frowned at that comment- I was no-one's boss, and certainly not his- but let it pass. "At this rate, it might take at least several days to make the trip between here and Evergreen on foot." I pulled out the GPS, flicking it to life, and selected the walking estimate for the pre-planned route. The device estimated that it would take at least three days walking, and I heard a small intake of breath from E: he was clearly opposed to hoofing it, as it were. "However, if we ride for the rest of today, given the speed limit of sixty MPH…" I flicked through some quick arithmetic in my head. "All told, that'd be about one or two days, depending on how close our as-of-now mysterious benefactor can get us and given we have about more-or-less nine hours until seven. If they can't get us all the way to Evergreen today, or they need to turn off between here and Evergreen, stopping at seven would give us more or less an hour to set up camp before nightfall."

E nodded. "Personally, I much prefer hitchhiking."

"Agreed. In any case, you will need to signal the vehicle, as I…" I shot a frustration-laden look at my paws. "Well, I lack the digits required in order to do so. You go about this by making a thumbs-up sign…" I halted, as I noticed E staring at his digits in obvious confusion, then began again. "Alright, give me your hand."

E hesitated for a moment, unsure: before he could decide whether or not to comply, I grabbed his wrist and pulled it down towards my height. While I was an atypically tall Lucario at around four foot three or so, E practically towered over me by about one and a half feet. I quickly shaped his hand, bending his fingers in and pulling out his thumb.

"You signal a vehicle by making this gesture and pointing your thumb in the direction that you wish to go. Understood?" E nodded. "Good. We want a very particular type of vehicle to ride in: specifically, a flat-bed pickup truck with no cargo and only a driver's and passenger's seat. Such a driver would either have someone in the passenger's seat or have filled it with a number of miscellaneous items, and a request from you to ride in the bed with me would not be considered suspicious. In this way, we can avoid the driver speaking to you at length and negate any risk of planting suspicions." My muzzle split into a wry grin. "People have a terrible habit of remembering what they really shouldn't, after all."

"Question." E said. "What is a truck, let alone a PICKUP truck? How, exactly, am I supposed to tell which vehicle matches that description?"

"In this case, thankfully, you will not need to. I can indicate which vehicle is the correct one to signal: all you will have to do is flag it down."

E nodded, seemingly satisfied.

Thankfully, we did not have to wait long for the proper vehicle to appear. While the first was a sports car and the second headed west instead of east, the third fit both requirements: it was a large, heavy-duty, two-door pickup, and it was heading east towards Evergreen. Quickly, I pressed one paw against E's pack: in response, he half-turned and pointed with his thumb down the road. The vehicle did not seem to be slowing, and for a moment I believed that the driver either had not seen us or had chosen to ignore us, but I was swiftly disproven when the driver flicked on their turn signal and pulled off onto the berm. As they pulled to a stop level with us, I examined the driver.

She was a woman, of around middle age: thirty or forty, I would say. A worn flannel shirt, large belt buckle and jeans indicated that she was most likely a hand on, or the owner of, a farm of some sort. In the passenger seat sat a Gallade, his face covered by an ancient brown leather hat with a wide brim, which was propped up against his cranial ridge. As I examined him, he sleepily lifted the brim of the hat, examining us, before dropping the hat back over his face and seemingly falling right back to sleep, his arms folded over his slim chest.

"You folks need a ride?" The woman asked, a smile plastered on her face.

"That would be greatly appreciated, thank you." Replied E.

"Alright. Where you folks headed, anyway?"

"Evergreen."

"Hmm…" She frowned, seeming to turn it over in her head. "Well, I can get you as far as when Route 66 branches off, and then I'm following it south. That good with you?"

E shot a covert look at me, and I nodded. While these two and their vehicle wouldn't take us all the way, the exit for Route 66 was around forty-five miles or so down the road, bringing us that much closer to our destination.

"Yeah, sounds great."

Her grinned widened, if that was even possible. "Then you folks hop in the back, and we'll be on our way!"

Without further ado, I hopped over the edge of the bed, E right behind me. The interior floor was strewn with bits of hay that had somehow clung to the steel without being blown away while the vehicle was in motion, and a single bale of hay and a bucket were currently the only occupants of the space. I noted that there was no openable window between the cab and the bed; all the better, as I did not want E making conversation with the driver, no matter how nice she seemed thus far. Enigma settled down next to the bale of hay, examining it and the dented steel bucket with apparent fascination, while I sat opposite him, then banged my paw twice against the back wall of the cab. With that, we were underway.

It was not often that I traveled in human vehicles. Over the years, I had stowed away in my share of open semis and box cars, but never a car: cars are not exactly the best environs for sneaking aboard. Small space and proximity to driver meant that one would get caught boarding or on it as often as not. However, with E as my ticket, I could now ride such transportation. I looked over at him, but he seemed to have interest only for the scenery flashing by; just as well, really, as any attempts at conversation would be drowned out by the wind roaring past. I settled in against the cab, satisfied that this was much better than walking.

The ride was quite pleasant, for the most part: the hay itched slightly when a piece of it blew in and was caught against me, and the wind was quite loud, but this was much preferable to walking the entire way, which would have taken us about a day on foot. Enigma glanced at me occasionally, obviously bothered by some question or another, only to decide against it on account of the wind, which made me, in turn, quite grateful for it. By the time Route 66 branched off of Route 96, we had traversed nearly fifty miles, a distance that would have taken the entire rest of today and part of tomorrow to traverse on foot: I marveled at modern transportation, though, conversely, it also allowed the front-lines to move much faster than they had any right to. As the truck slowed to a halt and we vaulted over the edge of the bed, the driver rolled down the window.

"Sorry I couldn't get you folks any closer: you trainers have it rough, eh?"

E grinned, which was fine, and replied, which made me nervous. "Yes, Ma'am. Thank you."

She scratched her chin, frowning slightly. "Don't reckon I ever introduced myself." She stuck her hand over the still-sleeping Gallade. Enigma glanced at me, seemingly mystified, and I mimed taking a hand and shaking it gently. A flash of understanding lit his face, and he reached out and took the proffered hand and shook it.

"Elizabeth Tailor."

With that, it occurred to me in a flash that we had never set up a cover name for Enigma: his chosen name was sure to arouse suspicion, and it would definitely be remembered, which I most definitely did not want. I went to speak-

"John." E said, smiling. I let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

"Well, John, I wish you fair travel and good weather." The Gallade offered a half-hearted wave with one hand, but did not lift the brim of his hat.

With that, Elizabeth pulled away back onto the road, then turned off onto Route 66. As soon as she was out of sight, Enigma and I both let out a collective sigh of relief. He grinned at me.

"Well. That could've gone worse." He said. I nodded; all in all, it went rather well, though one thing bothered me…

"Where did you pull the name John from?" I asked.

He rubbed the back of his head with his hand, looking slightly sheepish. "Well, it was mentioned in one of the books that I read that the name John Deerling is often used as an anonymous alias or a name for unidentified people, and I rather latched onto it in desperation." He lowered his hand to his side. "So, what did you think?"

I nodded. "Certainly better to give than your chosen name, though the last name in combination… You might as well give them your actual name." E gave me a questioning glance, and I waved a paw. "No, I'm being facetious. In all seriousness, however: if you must give that name again, you may wish to change the last name to Smith or Anderson, relatively common names that won't arouse near as much suspicion, and will make us that much less memorable."

Enigma tilted his head slightly, seemingly curious. "Why don't you want people to remember us, anyway? You seem rather obsessed with it."

"Tch. It's less directly because I wish to be anonymous, more that it is better if we are not memorable at all. If we are memorable, and something untoward should occur somewhere along our path, we may be pursued for one reason or another. If we are memorable, we might as well be leaving bread crumb trails and red arrows pointing wherever we've gone, where-as if we are forgettable we can disappear easily just by moving on." I glanced at myself. "I have already slightly compromised this by being a Lucario, so we will have to make up for this in other ways."

E nodded, accepting the answer, but almost immediately his satisfied expression was replaced with a questioning one, once again. I sighed; this was going to be a long trip.


	5. Chapter 5: Driven

"So, Elizabeth was nice."

"Yep."

"… Nice day out."

"Hmm."

This had been going one for no less than three hours, on and off, and always in the same pattern. We would be walking in silence as I contemplated philosophical fine points, then E would break the silence and attempt to start a conversation on this or that topic. I would, in exchange, either ignore him or reply with non-answers: eventually, his conversation topics faded into nothing, and we returned to walking in silence until he inevitably attempted to engage me again. At first I had found it nothing short of aggravating, but I was now in a semi-meditational state brought on by the steady rhythm of my travel, and accepted each new attempt with equanimity.

"… Do you hear that?"

I took a breath, intending to reply that it was simply another approaching vehicle… Hm. My ears pricked and I closed my mouth, listening intently. A pervading sound had appeared that had not been present before, a low, dull rumble that did not remotely resemble the hissing of the sound of the tires of a smaller vehicle against the asphalt of the road. I spun around, stalking past Enigma, who stopped in his tracks and followed me with a questioning gaze. I shot a glance down the road, for the sound seemed to be emanating from behind us, but could see nothing yet. A bend with a thick copse of trees obscured my vision: hopefully, it would obscure the vision of whomever was riding the source of the sound.

"We need to get off the road." I said levelly.

E jerked in surprise, throwing a look in my direction: I made eye contact with him, and his expression of surprise shifted to understanding as he glanced back down the road, warily keeping his eye on the bend as he turned away from me, taking swift steps towards the edge of the gravel side of the road and into the forest there, concealing himself behind a small stand of bushes. I followed behind him: however, instead of joining him on the ground, I selected one of the stronger branches of an ancient oak which had probably stood there for the last century. I got up some speed, then leapt up and caught the branch with my paw, using my momentum to swing up, around and over the branch, landing lightly on two feet. I paused as the wood swayed slightly and creaked under my weight, relaxing as it held, then turned carefully towards the road, falling completely still as I settled in.

From here, my view of the road was mostly unobscured by the leaves: however, where I was, the thick foliage surrounding me, and the shifting patterns of different shades of shadow and light, would help break up my form, making it difficult for anyone on the road to see me. I shared a glance with E, who crouched almost directly underneath me, and we both settled in to watch.

Fortunately, we did not wait long before the first vehicle appeared around the bend, an olive green military vehicle more suited to dirt roads and off-road areas than the straight asphalt. Strangely, it did not seem to be maintaining nearly the speed that it could have. The next vehicle provided the reason: it was a heavy semi, obviously some-what armored, possessing of a thin, angled windshield and the sporting the same color of paint as its smaller escort-for that is what it was. I observed through the windshield of the small vehicle two men, dressed in the same green uniforms, the passenger loosely holding a rifle and impassively watching the road pass by.

As more of the heavier of the two vehicles passed around the bend, what it was hauling became more visible: namely, it was a large trailer of significant size, carrying a shipping crate that followed the color scheme of the vehicle carrying it. However, it was clear that this particular container had been specially designed to cycle air while it was closed: a number of small air vents lined the front and back of the large rectangle of steel, through which air flowing in from the outside was no doubt channeled. My expression tightened, my lips pulling back slightly: I now had a suspicion of what the vehicle's cargo was composed of. The next in the convey confirmed this: it seemed to be a similar make and model to the first vehicle in line, but there is where the similarity ended: the pattern of paint, while similar to the other two vehicles in palette, was a completely different pattern, and the vehicle was not emblazoned with the white serial numbers that decorated the other vehicles. The people in the front seat, a man and a woman, were out of any particular uniform and did not share the same somber expressions as the passenger and driver of the first vehicle, and the man in the passenger seat seemed to be telling a story or joke of some sort. They seemed to be no more than two civilians who happened to be trailing behind a short military convoy, but they were anything but: two rifles-long-barreled, scope laden pieces of equipment-hung on racks behind their heads, and the back of the vehicle, instead of being canvas and plastic, was taken up with a solid-looking steel cage. The symbol emblazoned on the driver's side door was the figurative nail in the coffin: suddenly, as well-hidden and nigh invisible as I was, and despite the fact that they were paying no attention to the roadside, let alone the forest beyond it, I felt exposed.

A few more vehicles passed after that, but there was nothing new to observe about them: another semi with a near identical container, another small military vehicle, and two more vehicles with the same symbol as the third car and driven by people at ease and armed with similar long rifles. None of them noticed me, but that did little for my state of being: every muscle tensed periodically, and I had to forcibly relax them.

When the vehicles had long passed us, they turned off the road and onto a small spur, another smaller paved road that branched off of the main route, and disappeared from sight. I let out a pent-up breath that I had not realized that I was holding and dropped down next to Enigma.

"What, pray tell, was that?" I gave him a brief look: he seemed to be tense, and was observing me uneasily. With a start I realized that, despite my efforts to relax, my hackles were raised and my ears were back. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to relax again, before answering.

"Military hunter convoy." My gaze flicked up and down the route, searching for any evidence of further vehicles. "We need to get off the road."

With that, I motioned E to follow as I slipped back into the woods, moving in as much silence as I could muster. He hesitated, looking back at the easy walking route that was the gravel siding, before letting out a light sigh and reluctantly following me into the trees.

As soon as I could be sure that we were a sufficient distance from the road and any inherent dangers there-within, I straightened and cast an anxious look around at the trees, fearing that someone with a rifle would step out. E caught up with me, slowing to a halt by my side, eyes flickering across my form and following my gaze.

"You're-" he stopped, frowning, then started again. "What happened back there?"

My focus snapped to him. "What?" I… hadn't heard a word he said.

His expression tightened, his brow furrowing, and he placed one hand on his waist and shifted his weight onto one side.

"What happened back there?" He repeated. "Something about those vehicles spooked you. Bad."

"Hunters." I spat, as if that single word explained everything.

The end of his mouth stretched slightly, and he shifted his weight to the other side.

"You mentioned that that was a… Military Hunter convoy? What, exactly, does that mean?"

I spared a fearful glance back towards the road, as if mentioning them might reveal our position to them, then began moving in the opposite direction.

"It means we need to get as far from the road as possible,"

E grimaced, but took his hand off his hip and followed me into the tree line. I noticed his reluctance, obviously resulting of my lack of a straight answer, but the only real thought in my mind was getting as far away from the road as soon as possible. If military Hunters were in the area, that could only mean bad things, regardless of whether or not E accompanied me. Our camouflage of Trainer and Poke might only give a Hunter pause. I shifted my pack into a more comfortable position and began moving faster, angling to the right instead of straight forward in order to fool any would-be pursuers, seeking to avoid foliage and dirt wherever I could for stone and areas of thick roots. E, though obviously reluctant, followed directly in my footsteps, pausing only to remove his shoes and socks when I splashed into a stream, intending to follow it.

After some time, I began to calm myself and slow down, reasoning that I had done enough of a job concealing my tracks. E caught up in no time, obviously intent on questioning me once again, but I shook my head and continued moving forward. Then, I broke through the tree line and into a small glade.

I hesitated at the edge of the tree's shadow, carefully examining the surrounding trees for anything remotely suspicious: when I found nothing, I hesitantly moved into the center of the patch of grass, dumping my pack onto a knot of especially thick grass and sitting down, adjusting my singed bandana as I did so. E followed just behind me, squinting in the brighter light and sending appreciative glances upward towards where the warm sun peeked through the thick ceiling of leaves and dropping his pack next to mine. With his load off and me no longer moving, he moved around to my front, crossing his arms and staring pointedly at me.

"So."

"Sooo…" I replied, drawing out the word slightly: I knew exactly what he wanted to know, but I wanted him to ask the question. This was not the simplest of topics to address.

"Hunters." He said: I suppressed a wince at the word, a scar on my left arm itching slightly. "What are they?" I sighed.

"Hunters are…" I paused, assembling my thoughts and deciding where I wanted to go with this. "Hunters are… Well, I suppose they belong to the military. Both the UA and the JUR have them, as they are a necessary addition to any armed force that intends to fight with Poke. Their main purpose is to capture and bring in Poke wholesale, of all types, and wherever they ply their craft the Poke population is greatly reduced. Most are issued to the armed forces of whatever nation said hunters belong to, like weapons. Some, the rarer ones for the most part, are issued to commanding officers. A few, however…" Almost unconsciously, one of my digits brushed the itching scar, tracing the long wound from my shoulder to my elbow. "A few escape, though not without cost."

E noticed the movement. "You- " He stopped as I grimaced, shaking my head.

"Look, I don't want to talk about it." I vaulted back to my feet, then grabbed my pack and slung it back over my shoulders. "Let's just… Keep moving." I moved off towards the opposite end of the meadow, silently vowing to avoid the topic completely in the future. E made an irritated sound, but did the same, falling into my footsteps once again.

"Look, I just- you were captured, weren't you?"

"I was lucky, and strong. The others… Weren't so."

When he spoke again, his voice had softened slightly. "What happened to them?"

I froze. E stopped just before running into me, and I rounded on him, eyes flashing.

"DON'T-" I clenched my teeth and spoke lower. "No. I will not speak of…" I trailed off, standing there for a moment, different feelings jockeying for position. "Don't mention it again. Understand?" Without waiting for an answer, I whirled back around and stocked into the tree line. Enigma paused for a moment in the clearing, then followed behind.

We continued like that for a long while: silence, except for the faint sounds of life drifting among the trees. Enigma was clearly weary of setting me off again, obviously waiting for me to either break the ice or start talking about it anyway. However, I relished the silence, and thus did nothing to break the awkward tension that coalesced between us. It was a long time before Enigma spoke again.

"Vy…" he said in a low tone of voice, then seemed to roll what he wanted to say around in his mouth for a second. "Look, I just want you to know- "

I halted, holding up one hand. "Shh." I angled my ears. "Did you hear that?"

Though I couldn't see his expression, I could practically see his face tighten. However, I had not halted him in the middle of what he had been saying for no reason, though that was a welcome benefit: a low rumble, similar to the one that we had heard on the road just before the convoy had appeared. I looked back to see Enigma with his head cocked, a look of concentration on his face: he had obviously heard it as well. We shared an apprehensive look, then turned our attention forward, moving slowly forward through the underbrush.

On the edge of the forest was another road: for a moment, I was bewildered by its presence, and then recalled something that I had forgotten in my rush to get away from the main Route: the road that the convoy had turned down had branched off the side of the road that we had been on.

"Crap." I said, then reconsidered. "Shit." That seemed hardly severe enough either, so I launched into a quiet tirade so colorful that any sailors within hearing range, hiding behind trees perhaps, would have audibly blushed. Enigma, on the other hand, seemed without the benefit of any of the cruder words of the dialect, and simply let out a sustained breath through clenched teeth. After I had exhausted my vocabulary of inappropriate language and terms, I sat silently for a minute, fuming and glancing up and down the road.

To our right was the road to the main Route, which we could see clearly from here. This was rather unfortunate, as to our left was a road checkpoint with a semi, identical to those we had seen in the convoy that had given us reason to take leave from the Route itself. This presented quite the predicament: a hunter, dressed in the comfortable, loose clothes of her branch, was speaking amiably with the driver of the semi. as we watched she nodded and waved the driver through, the chain-link fence opening up to admit him as she returned her attention to the road. If we took the risk to run out across the empty expanse of road, there was very little doubt that she would notice us and give chase, an unneeded complication at this stage.

I drew back from the edge of the brush as another vehicle approached. Enigma waited just a minute longer, obviously looking for a way across of some sort, before grudgingly giving up and ducking back into the underbrush as the approaching vehicle, another small military vehicle, passed by. The edge of his mouth twisted into a frustrated grimace: obviously, he had not a single suggestion. After a moment, he threw a sidelong glance my way. I put the joint of a single digit between my teeth, lightly gnawing on it as I considered our limited options. Some consideration later, I withdrew the digit, sighing as I did so.

"I see all of two options here." I sat up again, E following suit, and indicated the road in front of us. "First, we attempt to cross the road here, with as much stealth as we can muster, and run the risk of being seen by the hunter in the checkpoint at which point we will be hunted down. As strong as either of us are, I simply do not see us holding off or outrunning a full force of hunters for any length of time."

E watched the checkpoint with baleful eyes, biting his lip, then speaking. "As enticing as that sounds, what would be the second option?"

Here it was my turn to shoot a sidelong glance at him-had that been sarcasm? -then continued.

"The second option would be to withdraw back into the forested area crowding this side of the road and attempt to forge a way back around the checkpoint." I pointed down the road, past the checkpoint and the chain-link fence to where the asphalt driveway turned, much of the bend hidden from sight. "We cross the road on the other side of the fence, then come back around and cross over. A bit needlessly complex, but no matter." I reconsidered for a moment. "We might also return to the Route and attempt to simply cross down there, but I have no desire to be seen by…" I shot a fearful glance at the hunter. "Well, by a hunter. At all. And considering that there seem to be a large number of convoys passing through…"

E shot me a look that I was unsure how to interpret, then seemed to deliberate a moment before answering.

"If you believe that crossing the fence is our best option, then so be it."

I released a breath of relief that I had not known I was holding. With that, I nodded to E, and we withdrew back into the deeper parts of the woods, distancing ourselves from it before continuing towards the fence. I would have been quite happy to walk in silence, but apparently Enigma thought otherwise.

E cleared his throat. "Look, about that thing with hunters you- "

I stopped and turned towards him

"Stop it. Stop asking about my life, and stop poking me about these things." I huffed in annoyance. "I have known you for all of twenty-four hours. Yesterday, you knocked me unconscious, which was not exactly the best introduction." E swiftly looked away, embarrassed. "There is no possible way that I would discuss sensitive-not to mention highly personal- parts of MY life, especially not here, especially not now. Our arrangement is mutually beneficial, so unless you wish to discuss equally sensitive things about YOUR past, drop it before I decide that I'd be better off alone. "

E flinched at that. "No, thank you…"

"I thought not." I swung back and marched in the direction of the fence. "Let's go."

Normally, I would have felt at least a sliver of contention at being so short with someone who had thus far been more or less straight with me, in a limited way, but I had as much desire to speak about these subjects as I had a desire to give myself face piercings with my own paw spikes. Thankfully, E seemed reluctant to break the new silence, something I was grateful for multiple reasons.

When we came upon the fence itself, I immediately noticed its curious construction: it appeared that the fence was in the process of being mended or replaced. To our rights, there was a stretch of silver, fresh chain link that was less than six months old, which ended at a replaced fence post. From there, the fence was old, corroded and rust-rotted, the steel coated in a thick layer of red and missing quite large pieces. A large amount of brush had grown right up to the oxidized section of fencing, where-as the area directly conjoined to the obviously newer sections of the fence had been recently cleared. Clearly, the fence had been in disrepair for some time, and only recently had it been deemed important enough to garner repair and replacement work on this level. A hodge-podge pile of wrapped rolls of shining fencing and fence posts lay on the edge of the clear area, obviously intended replacements for the older sections.

Largely, this was quite good news for us: any and all sensors and defensive measures would be attached to the newer fence, and the old fence would be completely undefended. I moved into the area of fence that had yet to be replaced and motioned E to do the same. After examining a six-foot section of fencing for the most stable portion of links, which reached more or less eight feet into the air, I hopped up onto a section I had selected. The steel links groaned and shifted, but held under my weight: after a moment of waiting for the fence to collapse-it did not-I continued upward, with E paying careful attention to where I set my footpaws. I reached the top of the fence in a few seconds: here, the barbed wire that had once adorned this section was hanging loose, a large chunk obviously missing. A glance downward revealed the missing section caught under a thick branch, which had obviously fallen from a tree which was now gone. I momentarily worried how old the fence actually was, then vaulted over the top, easily landing crouched among the plant matter festooning the opposite side. E quickly followed my footsteps up the fence, and I noted that the links shifted and strained just as much as they had under me.

Curious, I thought: as a steel-type Poke, I carried quite a bit of weight, owing primarily to my relatively high cellular and skeletal density, which allowed me to hit harder and move faster than most Poke. Curious, then, that E seemed to weigh around the same, if the reaction of the fence was anything to judge by. Then again, the fence seemed to be very old and quite unstable; thus, I was unsure exactly how much trust I should really put in it.

E landed as I had, and we forged a path away from the fence and towards the bend in the road that I had noted, the only accessible blind spot for the checkpoint that did not involve crossing the road in broad daylight. Even though the convoys on the Route headed through here, it was far less risky to cross the road inside the bounds of whatever compound this was: no doubt, the driveway in was much thinner and had far more twists and turns, raising the chance that even should a convoy pass by we should be easily enough hidden, and may even be able to cross the road before the drivers of said convoy might note our presence. The main, and only, real fear that I possessed was of on-foot patrols: it was obvious that this facility, whatever it was, was being constructed within the grounds of an older military base or compound of some sort, and therefore would not possess any sort of detecting or defensive systems as of yet. As a result, however, there was quite a high likeliness that there were a number of soldiers patrolling the woods for intruders such as us. The forest began to lighten in front of us: I realized that we were reaching the edge of our wooded cover, and the bend in the driveway. Mindful of any sound of approaching patrols, I approached the expanse of asphalt before passing through the edge of the brush.

Immediately, I cursed and retreated back into cover. The bend in the driveway, instead of leading into a second bend that would have hidden our passing as I had hoped, led straight into a large number of concrete pads with faint marks resembling parking spaces surrounding a number of low concrete buildings. Frustrated that my plan would not work, I turned to go.

"Wait." Enigma said the word so softly that I was half sure that I my sense of hearing had been playing tricks on me: however, when I turned to look, he was staring intently at the facility and had made no motion to move. He shared a glance with me, his face completely serious, and pointed out towards the buildings. Curious, and mindful of the fact that we could not remain for long, I followed his gaze. For a moment, all I noted where the drab concrete buildings, but then…

A number of semi-trucks, one of which was the one that we had seen pass through the checkpoint, where stopped before the buildings, with their ventilated shipping crates opened. However, that was obviously not the thing that had given E pause: for a moment, I stared uncomprehendingly, then saw it.

As I was watching, the newest truck in the line, whose container had not been opened, finished pulling into place. A number of soldiers in riot gear, armed with batons, surrounded the doors as one of their number went to open the door and stepped inside. The figure that had stepped inside the container was invisible for the moment, but he or she was not my concern: what came out was. A cage was handed out of the entrance to a soldier standing ready to receive it, and inside a small Growlithe pup, obviously just a few weeks old, cowered.

Exposed to the sunlight, it became agitated and began moving franticly about the cage, shaking it. One of the soldiers approached and touched their baton to the bars of the cage: the growlithe yelped in pain as the baton discharged energy into the conductive steel. I ground my teeth at the sound, but did not look away as a procession of Poke and, most surprisingly, humans in handcuffs where forced out of the container. The larger Poke were bound so thoroughly that they could hardly move, and the humans could do naught more than a slow shuffle, as their legs were bound as well. As I watched, one of the humans, a woman, attempted to fight: she managed to slam her manacled hands into one of the helmets of the soldiers and, before any of his fellows managed to stop her, she retrieved their side arm and shot off the manacles binding her ankles together and ran. To her credit, she made it a few yards before one of the guards tazed her: she fell, thrashing, and one of the soldiers approached. They put their finger to their ear and said something, their lips unreadable from here: after a moment, they nodded, then drew their side arm and fired a single bullet through the woman's head.

The gunshot rang out across the lot, and the other captives cowered against the container, obviously attempting to make themselves seem non-threatening. I watched silence as another guard came over and dragged the woman's body away: Enigma began lightly retching into the bushes. I looked at him with a small amount of surprise and concern; you would have thought that he would have seen much worse, on the merit of simply living on this continent. I watched him heave for a moment, attempting to keep down his breakfast, then turned my attention back towards the semi.

The rag-tag collection of Poke and humans held prisoner were in varying states of shock, staring after the guard dragging away the now-dead body. Some of them shook so hard that it was easily visible, while a few of their number looked on, their features masked. I was shocked to notice that some of the human prisoners were dressed as trainers of varying types and specializations: it appears that I had been right to remain hidden from the military convoys. The trainers, to the number, were among those who seemed less shocked or frightened; instead, they looked angry, and though they followed along willingly when the line began moving forward again, I had no doubt that they would lead the charge if they saw the slightest chance of escape.

I suppose, in a way, I felt differently towards trainers than I did towards any other faction. Hunters I feared and soldiers I hated, but trainers I respected. As much as I knew that they would attempt to capture me, I had no doubt that they had integrity and the closest thing to honor that existed anymore. I supposed that it was a sad day that a group of young children, old men and those incapable of military service represented the collective best morality of a sentient species. As much as I avoided them, and for good reason, they had plenty of substantial courage. I had to give them that much.

I watched carefully, noting every guard and soldier in sight, until the last of them had passed through the door into the compound itself, then prepared to leave.

"E, we should go." Enigma, strangely, was completely silent: I could not hear his retching, either. Concerned, I began turning towards him. "E-" I halted as I noticed that E himself appeared to be transfixed by a black rifle barrel.


	6. Chapter 6: Fled

There was no real time for rational thought and instead, I reacted, sweeping the barrel of the rifle up and away. There was a series of small shocks, the rifle shredding a number of leaves and raining pieces of foliage down on us, and I wrenched the rifle from the man's hands. In the background, I saw a number of other soldiers attempt to line up a shot: however, they could not fire at us without risking their ally. E had obviously observed the situation and come to the same conclusion-namely, that the soldier that had just been threatening him was now, though unintentionally, protecting us. Without a sound, E sprang into the soldier's stomach shoulder first, then drove him back into a knot of other soldiers before engaging them in close quarters.

I heard a click and flinched, jerking backwards slightly: a short burst of rounds knifed through the space that I had just been occupying, and I glimpsed another person of indeterminate gender adjusting their aim for a second burst. In another move that was more instinct than rational thought, I crouched, wrapping my digit around the trigger and squeezing off a short burst of rounds into their center of mass. While the soldier's armor protected them from the rounds, the burst left them sufficiently winded and stunned enough for me to cross the short distance between us and drive a palm into the person's chest. The blow shattered the ribs of the soldier, and they collapsed with a ragged gasp. In a fluid movement, I flipped the rifle around in my paws, leaping over the dying soldier and bringing the stock of the weapon down on the head of a second soldier. The blow staved their skull in, killing them instantly and producing a burst of blood and grey flesh that clung to the rifle as I brought back up. With a dismissive flick of my paw, I wiped away a large portion of the gore, and spared a glance at Enigma.

E was a whirlwind among the soldiers. He struck with little hesitation, his blows whipping through the air with incredible speed. Curiously, I noted, he did not seem to be striking fatal or even damaging blows, seemingly opting for a non-lethal style that appeared to be based around disabling or subduing his opponents rather than outright killing them. I was unsure what it indicated-a lack or resolve? A simple unwillingness to commit to a lethal strike?-but there was no doubt that it put us at a disadvantage. While my strikes, imbued with the proper amount of force, were putting down enemies permanently, the helmets and armor that the soldiers were wearing was dissipating the force from Enigma's weaker blows, and a few of the soldiers he had stunned, while still reeling from the blows, were already beginning to recover. I cursed and moved to begin striking them down, and was interrupted by another string of automatic fire tearing up the foliage at my feet. I leapt away from the line of fire, returning the favor with a burst of my own, only to be stopped as the rifle clicked. Dry.

I threw the rifle aside: I did not have the time to retrieve a magazine from the corpses of the soldiers I had already killed, nor did I wish to pursue the rifle of the second soldier which had skittered off Arceus knows where. Standing and fighting was looking to be worse an option by the second; shouts and crashes nearby indicated a larger force headed to where we were, Enigma's opponents had drawn off and now refused to close with him, and there were any number of soldiers moving among the trees just outside of our view, supporting those directly engaged with us. It was time, I decided, to enact the better part of valor.

"E!" I shouted over the turmoil, striving to be heard over the shouting soldiers. "Time to withdraw!"

Enigma delivered a particularly thunderous right cross to the jaw of a soldier before acknowledging. "Alright!" Stepping over the freshly-clouted body, he began running to my position.

If I had not glanced behind him, I would not have seen it: a single soldier, one of those Enigma had simply attempted to disable, was grimacing as he levelled his rifle. "E!" I shouted, pointing over his shoulder: before I had time to say anything else, the soldier fired a single shot.

The only reason that Enigma survived was because when I had pointed over his shoulder, he had begun turning to look. Because of his shift in position, the 5.56 round, which would have otherwise penetrated his heart or his left lung, tore through the fleshy part of his torso, just below the left armpit. The round pierced straight through his jacket and shirt and passed through him, barely missing me on its way. Enigma's face formed into a surprised O, his eyes widening slightly as the force of the round spun him in his place and threw him to the ground on his back, a small chunk of flesh missing around the exit wound.

I hesitated a moment, Enigma right there, the shoulder of his jacket and shirt already staining red, but my mind was made up for me. A group of soldiers burst through the underbrush, pointing in my direction and saying something that I couldn't catch: it was almost as if I was underwater, with sounds quieted or muted entirely. I glanced at Enigma one last time, his face twisted with confusion and pain, spared a single glance at the advancing troops, cursed, and ran.

I swung myself up into the trees in order to conceal myself, leaping left as a burst of gunfire followed swiftly behind me. I leapt from branch to branch, tree to tree, moving much faster through the treetops than any of my pursuers could chase through the thick undergrowth and clumps of close-grown trunks. The sounds of the pursuing soldiers quickly fading into the background noise of the forest as I grew farther and farther away from them. To be sure that I would lose them among the treetops, I made a slightly erratic path and leaving several false trails before finally hooking to the left. Though I could see not hide nor hair of any of the soldiers or guards, I kept moving: no doubt they'd soon bring in other Poke in an attempt to follow my trail. Whether the attempt would be successful or not, I was determined to gain as much ground as possible before that happened. So, I was not keeping my bearings as well as I could have been when I nearly leaped out into open space.

I hung onto the trunk of the tree, forward momentum struggling a moment against my muscles as I attempted to pull myself back into the tree and physics attempted to yank me out of it. After a moment, a semi-elastic effect returned me to the branch that I had seconds ago attempted to leap from, where I wobbled unstably for but a moment or two before regaining my balance. I waited a moment, steadying myself and releasing a slight sigh of relief that I had not been flung out into whatever space lay before me. With that, I settled in slightly and peeked between the leaves and branches that hid me from watchful eyes to see whither I had come.

To my surprise, and not a small amount of disappointment and frustration, I was about level with the checkpoint on the road, the very thing that Enigma and I had sought to avoid. I felt a twinge of something that I could not identify upon thinking of him, but waved it away: later, when I was away and safe, would be the time for regrets. Not now. Composing myself, I returned my attention to the checkpoint.

Another semi, loaded down with a ventilated steel container identical in every way save serial numbers, was stopped at the checkpoint, obviously seeking to pass through to the interior of the base itself. The hunter that guarded the post, the same female human that had been there the last time I had laid eyes on the checkpoint, was interacting with the driver of the semi. As I watched, there was an exchange of papers and ID, which she compared with information in the truck and the driver themselves, of whom I could see little to nothing. Clearly, the hunter was checking that the driver was both who he said he was, and did have clearance to enter this site.

At that moment, it occurred to me that, with the hunter distracted and the semi remaining still for a short time yet, I could leap across the gap between the nearest tree and the flat top of the shipping container, and then from there into the woods on the other side of the pavement. Quickly, I sized up the distance: yes, I could make it. I had made farther jumps without stumbling, and the road was relatively thin here: it was not much farther from the roof of the container to the woods on the other side, and with the roof of the small checkpoint building concealing me, I could make the jump across completely undetected. Get away scot free.

I reeled back on the branch, the wood swaying and creaking under my weight, and leapt across the gap, landing lightly and rolling on the flat, steel top of the container. Here, the steel was painted white-no doubt in order to make sure that the organic cargo that the container carried did not suffer overmuch of heatstroke. Recognizing that I was running out of time, I gauged the distance between the container and the other side of the woods, prepared to leap, then hesitated.

I threw a glance back in the direction of where I had last left Enigma, or at least the direction I roughly believed him to be in. Really, I should not have felt anything towards leaving him behind: he was a useful asset, but, as I had said, that was where our relationship ended. He had been not much more than a tool to me-a useful tool, granted, but a tool nonetheless-and he had attacked me the day before. And yet…

And yet, it had been me that had led him here. I had struck out along the Route, followed it, caught a ride with Enigma's assistance, driven us off the road at the first sign of hunters. I had been the one that had been perturbed by Enigma's queries about my past-though I believed that to be his fault-and, as a result of that, had allowed my nerves to frazzle to the point that I had not only suggested that we cross a fence into the grounds of which was clearly a military base of some manner. And then, the final crowning jewel I had been so shaken by the mere mention of a past that I did not wish to discuss that I had allowed a group of soldiers, and no small group at that, sneak up and plant a rifle barrel in Enigma's face-which was definitely my fault. Enigma had been not just shot, but captured, thanks to my mistakes. On that basis, I had the feeling that I now owed him something in reconciliation, in recompense.

Logically, I wanted to leave him to his fate. This section of my mind argued that I should hold no guilt or attachment, as such things had only been harmful before and would continue to be. It did not much help that if I actually attempted a rescue at this juncture, I had little doubt that I would most likely die in the process or be captured myself, a thought that sent deep chills up and down my spine, accompanied with a glimmer of fear and a memory of pain. I suppressed the reaction, argued that it was irrational, given that I did not commit further mistakes.

Emotionally, however, I felt responsible for Enigma. As capable as the kid had shown himself in combat, he was surprisingly naïve, honest and lacking malicious intent, rare qualities on this continent. He had put his faith in me and my active knowledge of the world at large and skill in avoiding problems and threats, and in return I had failed and abandoned him. Typically, I would have suppressed this reaction, and would have already been deep in the woods by this point, but I found myself strangely agreeing with this utterly insane line of thought. If I had not been so hard-pressed, I would have engaged in a bout of introspection to determine where these urges originated from, as they had not been present before. As it was, however…

A bang yanked my attention back to the situation at hand: it appeared that the hunter had finished her talk with the driver of the semi, who was now returning to his seat, leaping up into the cab and settling into the chair in front of the steering wheel. The engine came alive with a low grumble, reminding me greatly of the growl of a larger Poke. I cursed; I had seconds to make up my mind. I sat there atop that shipping container, and two roads stretched before me: abandon Enigma here, or… or what? Storm a heavily-guarded military facility which, admittedly, had lax security regarding incoming containers? Rescue a single individual out of the hundreds they no doubt were keeping imprisoned here, if the incoming groups were any indication?

The truck began to move. I tensed, my leg muscles coiling like springs, prepared to jump for the tree line… then the muscles went slack, and I laid down on the corrugated steel, cursing my illogical and irrational decision. Somehow, however, I felt better for making this choice, rare enough now that it deserved regard.

The asphalt had been repaved, and recently: while I had no doubt that the suspension of the truck was not sub-par in any sense, it would not have been able to mask the poorer construction of a more decayed road. Instead, the short journey was smooth: once again, if the vehicles and semis that I had seen were any indication, they must have had "shipments" traveling this egress and ingress road that they had seen fit to move the equipment and supplies out this far from the major cities, and toward the front lines, in order to repave it.

What, I thought, did they have need of this many test subjects for? I was unsure that I wished to know.

I gazed over the steel surface of the container and between the dual exhaust pipes of the truck itself as the vehicle rounded the bend that hid the base itself completely from view-perhaps they wished to hide the fact that so many people and Poke were being moved through here? The buildings, I observed, were solid concrete, most likely reinforced with steel rebar inlaid in grids when the concrete had been first poured. Some of the buildings, obviously of slightly different construction, were stained with age and exposure, while some glared in stark white contrast to their older brethren: it was obvious, form the state of the road and this relatively new construction, that the base had been restored and expanded when whatever project that had taken residence here had started. There was a collection of guards in riot gear assembled in a rough semicircle next to a parking space large enough to fit the semi and its large trailer. The truck that had occupied the space previously was now gone; I considered that they might have a storage parking area elsewhere, perhaps behind some of the uniform concrete structures. As the truck and its cargo pulled into the space, the guards fanned out behind it. I crawled on my forearms to the back of the container, counting on their concentration on the task at hand, as well as the fact that no-one ever looks up, to help conceal myself. My ears went flat against my skull.

The scrimmage line of body armor and blank, tinted helmets established, two of the guard's number came forward with a key and stun batons at the ready. One of them reached forward, key in hand, and unlocked the doors, which swung wide with the quiet hiss of pneumatics.

One of the faceless figures spoke up. "Come out one at a time, slowly."

The first to exit was a human, a dark-type trainer from the look of her outfit, which was torn and singed from Arceus knows what. She recoiled from the bright daylight and paused just outside of the container, glancing up at the sky, her eyes landing on me. She froze, stock still, as a series of emotions flashed across her expression-surprise, confusion, and a flicker of something that might have been… hope. I felt a twinge of guilt at that last one. I held up a single digit over the end of my muzzle: seeming to understand, she nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Move!" one of the guards jabbed her in the ribs with his baton, and she jumped at the electrical charge, giving the guard a look that would have stopped a charging Ryhorn in their tracks, and made them consider pursuing an exciting career as a monk. The guard, however, seemed disappointingly unaffected: before they could jab her again, she made her way around the side of the vehicle, to where a line of guards defined a path straight to a thick, solid steel door through which the last load of human and Poke had disappeared earlier.

The group contained within the container filed out slowly. Though the trainer who had seen me said nothing and did not indicate in any noteworthy way my position, nearly every one of the prisoners that passed below me made eye contact with me, or gave a glance out of their peripheral vision. As they saw me, they seemed to stand straighter. Some, sporting bruises and bandages and walking with a hunch, seemed to regain an inner fire.

I was unsure why: perhaps my clear freedom, right under the proverbial noses of their guards, gave them confidence. Perhaps they thought that I was here to set them free, a false hope if there ever was one. However… I had already defied logical reasoning once: I was here, I had ridden the truck to its destination when I could have escaped, gotten away clean. As determined as I was to properly rescue Enigma and escape with my-our-lives, the same part of me that had argued for saving Enigma wanted to save them, save everyone here.

Unfortunately, the guards were more attentive: the actions of their prisoners, their continued glancing at the top of the storage container, did not go unnoticed. I ducked behind the steel rim of the container as one of them looked up, sure that my cover was blown. They would check the top of the container, and no amount of power or combat skill could resist the sheer force this particular base could no doubt produce on a very short notice. I lifted myself ever so slightly, ready to respond to any threats.

Before the guard in question could even lift his head over the edge of the container or open his mouth to speak, I heard a scuffle break out below the rim of the container. I chanced a look over the edge…

Several of the people in line, human and Poke alike, had seen the guard glance at the roof of the container and open his mouth. Obviously, they had realized that if the guards had searched the roof, they would have discovered me, and seemed to think that whatever I had given them-hope or determination, it did not matter. They had determined that I would not be found.

A man in a business suit that may have once been pressed and clean, but was now festooned with tears in the fabric and stained with blood, had formed a lace of his fingers and struck one of the guards in the faceplate, who was still reeling from the sudden blow. There, a hitmonlee, its left eye covered with an eyepatch that had once been white, struck out as best it could with its chained hands. A Charmeleon, its paws bound and its faze muzzled, had tackled another guard. In the resulting chaos, a flurry of baton swings meeting a mix-and-match collection of fists and paws, it seemed that I had been forgotten. However, as dangerous as this situation was, I determined to leave my current hiding place in the case that the guard remembered something that he shouldn't have, an annoying tendency that I had noticed in sapient beings.

I sent furtive looks over the sides of the container, sizing up the situation, then retreated to the far end of the flat steel surface. From there, I took off sprinting down the steel, then leapt off of the end and into the air. For a moment, I thought that I had not made it: the edge of the roof of the nearest building, which I had been aiming for, seemed too high for a landing. For a moment I panicked, and was just trying to decide what angle I would rebound off the wall in, when I struck. It turns out that I had just enough momentum, though no more than that: my feet landed hard on the gravel roofing, and I tucked and rolled almost automatically. I sat for just a moment, crouched there just a few feet away from the edge of the roof, not quite believing that I was fine. After a moment, I shook off the shock and peeked out over the edge of the roof.

The small rebellion had given me enough time and enough of a distraction to escape: now expended, they allowed themselves to be forced back into a single file line, sporting plenty of new bruises, burns, and-in one case-what appeared to be broken bones. They watched anxiously as the guard that had previously caught a glimpse of me walk up to the container, boost himself up, and look over the rim. I ducked my head back behind the small wall that surrounded the edge of the building's roof as he looked in my direction, but this time was not seen. I waited a moment, then peeked back over: the guard, whose body language now radiated annoyance, climbed down and spat something that I couldn't quite hear. At this, the crowd of prisoners, human and Poke alike, seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

I watched as my erstwhile allies were lead through the door that the others had passed through earlier, now underneath me. Here, I noticed something that I had not before: the dark trainer, her longcoat now more ripped and tattered than ever from the fighting and slightly singed around the edges, had somehow made her way to the back of the group, and was sending covert glances around. After a moment, she glanced upwards, and saw my head poking up over the roof, and we made eye contact. I made a small salute, and she acknowledged it with a nigh-imperceptible nod, then fixed her attention forward. The only sign that anything had occurred was the slightest ghost of a grin, which slid off her face nearly as fast as it had appeared. In a gesture that was particularly atypical for me, I vowed to save her, save all of them, if I had the chance.

I watched as the last of the guards disappeared within the structure: the driver of the semi, who had left his cab to assist in containing the prisoners, now opened the door and climbed back into his seat, starting the semi and pulling out. I watched the vehicle until I was quite sure that it was out of sight of me, and then stood, stretching slightly and examining my surroundings.

A number of security cameras, their red blinking lights almost invisible in the light of day: however, every one of them was pointed downwards towards the ground, obviously set to observe anyone approaching from the ground. The reinforced concrete walls would have been too high to vault for most and too smooth to climb: it had taken the boost in height provided by the corrugated steel of the shipping container to allow me to reach a sufficient height, and I doubted that I could have made the jump from the ground. Up here, where it was obvious that the designers of the base's surveillance had least expected unauthorized personnel to be, there was nothing of the sort. The only protection for the rusted steel door that blocked the entrance into the interior of the facility was a corroded, ancient keypad that had obviously not been changed since the building had been built, which had no doubt been some time ago.

In fact, now that I had a good look at the door itself, the aperture was not even properly sealed: the door itself was held open by a small block of what appeared to be aluminum. A number of cigarette butts, and a number of other miscellaneous bits and bobs of debris, were scattered around the door: obviously, employees and personnel working in the building below often came up here for unsanctioned breaks away from the prying eyes of their managers. Amusing, really, that something so innocent as some poor janitor wanting a break from the monotony of his work would be my way into the inner sections of the facility. Pushing the door open gently, so as not to alert any potential hostile people on the other side to my presence, I stepped through and into a white stairwell.

The entire structure smelled very much of antiseptic, with a very slight undercurrent of iron. I shivered slightly: this was too much of a reminder of… I shook off that particular train of thought, and turned my attention back to the situation at hand. I was immediately glad that I had, as a security camera was watching the stairway going up, which twisted slightly to follow the oval-shaped stairwell. I was currently out of sight of the camera, as the roof access door was on the far end of the final landing from the stairwell and therefore outside of its visual range. I leaned over the railing, looking down.

The stairway itself seemed to continue downward for a space of four stories beneath this landing, a landing between them: as the actual aboveground structure was only two stories tall, accounting for the abnormally high wall, I guessed that the lowest two floors were sub-levels beneath the actual aboveground part of the facility. I grimaced: Enigma might be on any of these four floors, and I need more direction that just intuition and guessing. Gut feeling was all well and good in close combat, when instinct and intuition may save your vital organs from an unfortunate meeting with a steel pipe or similar weapon, bit it could only carry one so far. At this juncture, it would be wiser and more rational to search for the reliable savior of the lost and the confused: directional signs. Before I went in search of any of said signs, of course, I would have to circumvent the security system.

Unlike outside, whomever had designed this section had seen fit to leave very few gaps in the visual range of the artificial sentinels. The blind spot I was standing in was one, and there appeared to be a section of floor that was invisible to the silent observers that extended from approximately the center of each landing, where the door would be on floor landings, to beneath the security camera pointed upwards towards the descending flight of stairs. This strange series of uniform blind spots was caused by the peculiar curving structure of the well: if the entire thing had been square, there would have been no gaps in the security blanket excluding a small area just in front of the roof access door. However, the construction necessitated that the cameras be pointed towards the center of the bend in each stairwell, meaning that each camera would be able to see the stairwell and a small portion of the far corner of the next landing, but nothing further than that. After a moment of careful consideration and planning, I nodded: I could work with this.

I backed against the wall opposite the railing that guarded against falls, seeking to get as much space as possible, then darted forward and jumped, springing off the polished steel and out into space. For a tentative moment, I hung there, momentarily afraid for the briefest of moments-for the second time today-that I would not make it. However, similar to a few minutes ago, the fear proved ultimately unfounded: I slammed into the railing on the far side of the well paws-first. The contact swung the rest of my body towards the hard steel and concrete, and I promptly cushioned the impact with my legs. From there I took a moment, breathing lightly and gauging my next jump, before coiling my muscles underneath me and shoving off the railing and down towards the next landing, spinning in mid-air and catching myself against the polished railings. This landing, unlike the blank, featureless wall of the intermediate landing, presented me with a gunmetal gray door. I winced at the unfortunate choice of wording, then chided myself: one could not summon misfortune simply by abstract thinking.

Deciding that the second floor was a good a place to start as any, and ruefully considering the fact that I would no doubt be unable to make the leap from a lower landing to a higher one without a running start, I clambered over the steel barrier, landing lightly on my feet. I brushed my knees less out of a desire to clean them and more out of instinct, and turned my attention to the door itself.

The steel of the door had been replaced recently, but the doorframe surrounding the aperture was obviously much older and slightly decayed: it appeared that the door opened outward into the landing, and I had a slight inkling that while it would be difficult indeed to brute force one's way through the door from this side, even with the decayed doorway, but that one might manage it from the inside if one had enough weight or strength, and a running start. I wondered briefly if it might be locked by some security code or something of the like, but a mere cursory glance at the keypad panel in the wall next to the door dismissed any suspicions of the sort: the small box hung from its cradle on a confusing snarl of wires that were every color of the rainbow, a fair few of which seemed to be either frayed beyond all belief or disconnected entirely. Suspecting that it might be manually locked, I tried the handle gently and was pleased to find that it turned smoothly and soundlessly: new door, old building.

With an apprehensive glance back into the stairwell, I levered the handle down all of the way and silently opened the door, slipping through as soon as the opening was wide enough and closing it behind me.


	7. Chapter 7: Engaged

As I stepped through the aperture, the door's hydraulics went to close it in my wake. For a moment, I nearly engaged the foot and kept the door open. I wrestled with the urge for a moment, reasoning that I was perfectly capable of removing the door from its hinges in an emergency. Still, despite my self-reassurance, I still felt a slight trill of fear as the door swung back into place and the latch engaged. I shivered once, then turned to face the hallway.

As opposed to the bare concrete that formed the outside walls of the building, the hallway was a sterile, uninterrupted hospital white, interrupted by regularly placed steel doors: easier to clean blood, I thought darkly. Catching the tail end of that thought, a whiff of antiseptic floated down the hall. For one brief second, I didn't register what it was, then my eyes widened as I made the connections. Shattered fragments of images-knives, antiseptic and steel, blood, corpses-flickered through, all drenched in pain and fear. The hallway seemed to twist and lengthen, getting smaller and smaller as the walls closed in and stretched, threatening to crash down like waves-

I forced my eyes closed, desperately hugging myself and putting my weight on the door behind me so I could better concentrate on slowing my rapid breathing, suppressing a wild maelstrom that urged me to flee, to run, to put as many miles between myself and this place before it was too late.

"I'm okay." I repeated to myself between breaths, rubbing my bandana as I did so. "I'm okay, I can do this. I can do this."

Gradually, my ragged breathing slowed and the shivers died off. I managed to tamp down the panic, walling it off and isolating it in a box. I hunched over slightly, resisting the urge to be sick right there in the middle of the hallway. I grit my teeth, a feat difficult to achieve with canine teeth, and forced myself back up onto my feet, opening my eyes again as I did so.

The hallway had returned to how it had appeared before my… episode. The walls no longer shifted, it no longer stretched into eternity. I took a deep breath, my hands returning to my side, and I stepped away from the door, towards the first of the apertures that interrupted the unnaturally clean walls. I needed to start somewhere, and here seemed like as good a place as any.

The door was, as I had supposed, steel, and was set into the wall relatively well: while the door to the stairwell would be easy enough to remove given proper motivation, it did not look as if such tactics would work here. A locking mechanism was present on the doorknob, a combination of a four-by-three button numerical pad with a small LCD display, including buttons labelled ENT and CAN, and a deep groove that I assumed to be a card reader. I glanced at the other doors, suppressing a slight wave of nausea from the quick motion: while most of the doors possessed this same set-up, some merely possessed a card slot. Obviously, the lower-security rooms may be unlocked by passcode and/or card, possibly to provide access for a janitorial staff that would not be issued ID cards. Thus, if any janitors were actually spies or infiltrators in disguise, they would need to steal a keycard, and would be very easily picked out. That line of reasoning complete, I returned my attention to the door in front of me.

Obviously, I had no idea what the code was, and had no opportunities to filch any sort of ID or card of any sort at any point. While a well-placed kick would fracture the door latch and provide me with immediate access, I had no clue if there was some sort of alarm system in place and the shattered pieces would no doubt give me away at some point. Almost abstractly, I ran my digits down the doorframe, stopping when I felt a series of small bumps. I cocked my head slightly to one side, and leaned over slightly, in order to see the side of the frame. Inscribed in the door frame, doubtless with some sort of sharp implement, was a five-character string of numbers: 24601. Human inertia in action.

I typed the numbers carefully into the keypad, then tapped the key labelled ENT, a slight grin flickering across my features as the lock let out a small beep and disengaged. I pushed the door open slightly, the square of steel sliding silently on well-lubricated hinges, and disturbing a small amount of dust that floated up in the air and shone in the light.

It was rather apparent that this room had not been used in some time: a thin layer of dust coated racks of steel shelving that lined the walls, as well as the boxes that they supported. Carefully closing the door behind me, suppressing a flinch as the latch re-engaged, I moved deeper into the room, intent on searching the boxes for any sort of usable resources.

The first, mid-sized and constructed of unmarred white cardboard, contained manilla-paper file folders. The next contained smaller boxes filled with staples, the third a loose assortment of paperclips of varying sizes and shapes. Absently, I selected one of them and placed it in my pocket, supposing that it may become useful at a later time.

The rest of the crates, of varying sizes and constructions, held a rather eclectic collection of office supplies, ranging from clips to binders and even laser pointers, one of which I took. Of particular note was a box of flathead screwdrivers: while this was odd in and of itself, it became especially so when one considered that the humble screwdriver, while a useful tool with a wide range of applications, could not even marginally be considered office supplies in any way, shape or form. I stared at the contents of the box for a while, then shook myself: there were more important things to do right now, the least of which was staring at a box full of tools. I selected one of them, a shorter model with a crimson handle, and closed the box back up, slipping the selected tool into the same pocket as the paperclip.

While this room had been quite helpful in providing some tools that might be useful, there was nothing else to be gained by staying here. I tested the laser pointer once-it was in full working order, Arceus bless modern alkaline power cells-then pressed one of my ears against the door, closing my eyes and concentrating. While the low humming of machinery was conducted throughout the walls and a variety of rhythmic background sounds seemed to be relayed by the steel in the building's structure, there were no footsteps in the hallway itself. Confident that it was safe, I exited the room and continued on across the hall.

The next room was a meeting room of some sort, office chairs set up around a long, rectangular table. All that could be found here was a remote to control a hidden projector and a number of black pens: I moved on.

Five rooms later, I found what I wanted. I punched in the code, opened the door, and found myself in an office of sorts. A single chair, one of the more comfortable sorts, was set behind it, opposite two obviously less comfortable chairs arranged in front of the desk. A number of filing cabinets adorned one wall, while the opposite was decorated with a picture of a skitty hanging onto a branch for dear life, subtitled "Hang In There" in large, block capital letters. A large potted plant stood in one corner, which looked altogether too healthy for this enclosed, sunless environment. I touched one of the leaves with a single finger: plastic. That answered that question.

I moved away from the plant and around to the back of the desk, glancing at the mess of papers that covered the top of the piece of furniture. Reaching out, I began sorting through it, searching for something that might assist me: evacuation plans, supply requests, diagrams-anything that might indicate where a holding area might be located.

The stacks of papers were almost intimidating-this was a governmental facility, after all-but eventually, I began to find hints of this and that among the writings. Reports on a variety of weapons and technology being developed on base included cranial command units, cybernetic enhancements, communications, processing, translating and storage implants-mostly cybernetic research. One of the documents, addressed from a colonel something-or-other to a Mike who-gives-a-shit, detailed that this particular facility had been assigned to research cybernetic enhancements and implants for pilots of a new line of armored vehicles, at least one of which was stored here on-site, presumably for testing.

Many of the dockets addressed the status of one S-117, who was regarded as particularly resilient and had received the lion's share of experimental enhancements: some communique seemed to address concerns over the amount of advanced and expensive experimental eggs in one basket, but the research team had dismissed the risk as "negligible". In the ensuing time, given S-117's remarkable performance and adapting to the many installed enhancements, the military personnel that had previously expressed worry were singing a different tune: in fact, a fair few of them had requested operation time, which led to the research team to propose that, once normal testing was complete, S-117 might be memory-wiped and re-tasked as a combat test pilot in place of human assets. I shuddered; that was not a fate that I would wish on anyone, especially not this S-117, whomever they were.

I frowned. As fascinating as this was to read, I had a very clear job to accomplish: find holding areas, free Enigma, escape without receiving lead poisoning. I pushed the pile of papers dealing with the testing procedures aside and dove back into the mess of papers, slips and memos scattered about the desk surface. After some major sifting and being frankly shocked that any one work space could collect this amount of clutter, I discovered a printed page of intra-mail, once again addressed to Mike who-cares-really. The letter itself was addressed from a guard on one of the lower levels, Sub 3, who was requesting the construction of a hidden weapons locker for anti-riot purposes.

"Sub level three, hm?" I considered for a moment, then sighed. This was the best lead that I had discovered as of yet, and I had spent far too long in this office as it was.

Quickly, I gathered the series of messages regarding Sub 3 as well as a basic floor plan of the facility-along with a number of miscellaneous papers-then hunted down a stapler among the forest of paper stacks before quickly stapling the stack together. As a final touch, I hunted through the mess again until I found a clipboard, and clipped a pen and the papers to the composite board surface before removing my bandana and placing it securely in my pocket, rubbing it as I did so. This way, if I ran into anyone in the hallways and had no time nor chance to hide myself, I could simply hold the clipboard at my side, assume a bored expression and walk right past them. In this way, I could potentially move around the facility without being challenged: after all, without my bandana I would reasonably appear to belong here. That, and, while I wouldn't admit it, having something solid and physical to hold onto while my slightly-singed piece of cloth was unavailable made me feel at least slightly better about walking around this place.

I pressed my ear to the exit door, and heard only the background noises that I had noted earlier. Opening the door confirmed it: the hallway remained empty. At this point, I was growing suspicious about the lack of all personnel. As far as I could tell, the building was practically abandoned, and it simply didn't make sense. Where had everyone gone? Where was the owner of the office that I had just been in, the people that might have attended meetings in that room, the IT people that would be maintaining these electronic systems when they were not in use? Something odd was going on, something that my mind, addled as it was from this place, could not make sense of.

Fighting off not completely unfounded waves of paranoia and concern, I clutched the clipboard at my side and made my way back towards the stairwell. While I would have liked to explore a bit farther on this floor in search of weapons or other useful tools, I had wasted enough time already, and frankly had no clue how many rooms were present on this floor without studying the plans.

I gently pressed the bar that opened the stairwell exit, letting out a subconscious sigh of relief as it gave way easily, the mechanical components retracting the latch and allowing the door to open outwards unimpeded.

There seemed to not have been any change in the status of the stairway since I had entered it from the roof. That, at least, was not necessarily surprising, as I had no doubt that anyone in their right minds would take the stairs when there was, no doubt, a perfectly functional elevator somewhere in the building. Unfortunately, such an option would not be available to me for a multitude of reasons: security cameras, potential proximity to actual base personnel for extended periods of time, needing more than a janitor's code to get to the deeper sections of the facility where I needed to be, and, most importantly, it was a very small room that moved. I was unsure that I would even be able to hold myself together long enough to reach Sublevel 3 even if I DID gain access.

Here, in the stairway again, I had no real obstacles impeding my infiltration besides the landing doors and the cameras. However, due to the clipboard I was holding-as well as lacking any sort of carrying case for it-I had no way to move down the stairs in the manner that I had before. Optionally, I could utilize the laser pointer to disable the cameras one by one as I made my way down the stairs, but that would require the person watching the security feeds to be incredibly inattentive. One may dismiss a single camera frying itself, perhaps even two if they were generous or feeling particularly lethargic, but three or more would be more than a coincidence. Then, there was the fact that they would be going down in sequence, and the gap would be the exact path that a person making their way down the staircase would take…

My route, jumping from flight to flight and making my way down utilizing that method, remained the best option. Therefore, I could choose one of three options.

First, I could simply throw the clipboard from landing to landing, then follow afterward. This was no doubt the simplest of my options, but carried with it a high risk if breaking the clipboard, which would be less dangerous than aggravating. There was also the fact of the noise: while my fur and padded paws greatly softened the noise of my landings, preventing any real noise from echoing, the series of clacks that the clipboard would produce on the concrete landing would be as loud as gunshots in this space. Loud noises, happening at regular intervals, would make any guard or soldier worth their salt immediately suspicious, and being discovered with secret documents and lacking identity, not even mentioning the fact that I was dodging cameras… they might just shoot me on the spot, just to save time.

Second, I could grip the board between my teeth when making the jumps. This was a very stupid idea, for multiple reasons: my canines could punch straight through the cheap, flimsy composite board, I could ruin the documents with saliva or slice them up accidentally, I could drop it from the shock and be forced to watch it spin down to the lowest level of the facility, dreading the deafening sounds that it would make on the way down… yes, I think not.

Third, I simply go back and find a bag to carry it in. I had not immediately gone with this option for a few reasons: I did not want to re-tread ground, I didn't want to push my luck, I did NOT want to run into the man from whom I had just stolen a number of papers. However, mostly, I think… I think I just didn't want to go back there. It reminded me too much of-no, no, no. Don't think about it.

At the thought, I remembered my bag: of course, of course. I had been wearing it the entire- wait.

For the first time, I noticed how light I was. I had been so concentrated on moving and evading and escaping that I hadn't noticed that MY BAG WASN'T THERE ANYMORE. I turned in circles, suppressing panic: where had it gone? Had it fallen off? Had the straps failed? I had no clue, and I couldn't remember anything. I sat down, hard: when had I last seen or felt it?

I was reasonably sure that I had had it when I went over the fence. From there, I had simply made my way to the edge of the forest, saw the facility, and then-the soldiers. The soldiers had attacked, and they had fired a single shot at me. What if that shot had been closer than it had appeared? It could have sheared the strap in half, providing that it had been close enough: unlikely, but possible. Now, it made sense: I had made multiple jumps that I had been sure that I would miss, crash and burn. The reason that I had been underestimating my leaps was that I was much lighter than I had thought I was, and therefore the same amount of force, acceleration and momentum was carrying me higher and farther as a result. However, one thought occurred to me: if the bullet had pierced the strap, leading to the pack falling away, that meant that the soldiers most likely had it in a room somewhere, with everything else they would have confiscated from their "test subjects". In that case, it was probably…

I glanced over the railing and down towards the bottom of the stairs. Like before, it at first appeared that it went down three more levels: however, squinting, I now saw that there was a final landing, a solid concrete floor, bottoming out the shaft. That, I thought, must be sublevel 3. It made sense to make the lowest basement level a holding area: it was the farthest for any escapees from the cells to the exit, and the farthest for any force attempting to free them. Their confiscated items were most likely not far: perhaps on the same level, perhaps one level up. A quick check of the floor plans confirmed something: confiscated items were located on the first floor, and a short detour from the stairwell would take one right by it. With luck, I would be able to retrieve the packs-as well as some other pieces of equipment-before escaping. In fact, it was almost too easy…

I cocked my head as an idea occurred to me. Namely, that the fortifications, defenses and surveillance I had already noted were all focused inward. I had gotten this close because the cameras were all pointing down the stairs: I could make the leap from an upper level while dodging their line of sight, but it would be nigh impossible for all but a flying type to jump from a lower landing to a higher one. There were no patrols on the second floor, which would be incredibly hard to reach without being seen, but I had no doubt that patrols would increase as I went lower. The only thing that worked to my favor was that there appeared to be something going on right this moment, something major enough to warrant an almost complete emptying of the building. Emptying, not evacuation, because no alarms had been sounded, and it seemed to be business as usual for guards, soldiers and the like. Enigma-a twinge of something pierced me, but vanished before I could identify it-and I had not seen anything abnormal from the outside, but perhaps the testing grounds were closer towards the center?

Wait, wasn't…? I lifted the clipboard and looked at the papers clipped there. There, on the front, was a calendar of sorts, labelled with a variety of notable happenings that fell under the purview of middle management, which I had no doubt that the person I had stolen these papers from was. There, on today's date, was a single event: "weapons testing: S-117 M33. Rigged it for Cam to take fall if this falls through, the bastard". As much as I disliked returning, I was considering more and more the fact that perhaps I should have been more thorough in my search of the desk: any and all information would be helpful at this juncture, especially if I could somehow sabotage this test and gain a convenient distraction.

I turned to open the door, then jerked my paw back when the mechanism disengaged itself. In a spit second, I made a decision: I stepped quickly to one side, hiding between the door and the wall. Had this been a square shaft, there would only be inches of space between the door and the inside wall of the well itself. As it was, however, the curvature of the wall and the door stopper that prevented the steel door from damaging the painted sides of the stairwell came together and provided a full foot of space between the door and the wall itself. I braced myself for a second, then slammed my full body weight into the flat surface of the door, causing it to swing violently outwards and towards whomever had opened it. There was a short, gravelly cry of surprise, and the door rebounded with a thunk as it collided with the person in question.

With as little hesitation as physically possible, I grabbed the handle and swung myself around the door, putting all my strength into a single blow, which sent the fatigue-wrapped soldier careening backwards into the hallway from which he'd come, and into a knot of fellow soldiers, causing them to fall in a confused mess of body parts. I dashed into the hallway, vaulting the group of soldiers struggling to untangle themselves and face the threat, and kicked another soldier full in the chest. His body armor, designed to deflect bullets, stop fire and insulate against electricity, only dissipated my strike slightly, and I felt his ribs give way as he went down. I landed on top of his chest, then launched myself at the group of struggling soldiers.

The first, I incapacitated with a kick, then laid out a second with a short series of strikes to vulnerable areas before elbowing the third in the face and back-handing the fourth so hard that he struck the wall. These four taken care of, I looked down the hallway for further threats.

There, I saw a final soldier-some sort of officer, I would guess by his attire-looking generally shocked, and, something which honestly surprised me, a Luxray. Both were staring directly in my direction, but while the Luxray appeared frozen, the officer was not: he raised his right hand, which seemed to contain something black. Personally, I was having none of that.

I crossed the distances, a burst of extreme speed carrying me right up to the officer, who did not even have the time to look down before I struck the hand holding the object. I felt plastic, skin and bone give way as my right paw's steel spike penetrated right through whatever it was. Before the man could even register pain, I yanked the spike out, leaving the crumpled shards that were all that were left of the mystery device to fall to the floor at both of our feet. With that, I drove my left paw into the man's stomach, causing him to double over, then pulled back before striking upwards toward his chin with my right. With a crunch, he went flying back into the wall, crumpling into a pile like a puppet with its strings cut.

With the last human down and hopefully out, I spun to face the Luxray. It didn't particularly help my confidence that they were nearly as tall as me even while on all fours, and probably packed enough electrical energy to power a city block. However, to my surprise, they hadn't moved: instead, they were staring directly at the device, now not much more than broken shards of plastic and electronic components with an expression that was somewhere between shock and incredulity.

After a moment, the Luxray started slightly, and shot a glance in my direction before turning their attention to the human that was crumpled against the wall. That human, in particular, had not been injured to an extreme degree: broken jaw, hole in his hand, some potential minor internal bleeding, but nothing immediately life threatening. He was even moving slightly, moaning in pain, and would no doubt survive even if I did nothing. Despite that, I knew, without a doubt, that this man would not see tomorrow. The stare that the Luxray was giving the man while it moved towards him was so full of hatred and savage glee that I was surprised he didn't just combust.

Slowly, the Luxray began to approach him: groggily, he looked up at the soft padding sounds, and instantly snapped awake upon making eye contact with the large, black-and-blue poke. Seeming almost panicked, he broke the gaze and franticly glanced around for something. Then, his eyes landed on the small pile of electronics and plastic, and whatever amount of blood was left in his face drained into his boots.

Almost gently, and without breaking its piercing gaze, the Luxray gripped the man's boots between its teeth and began pulling while the man himself struggled weakly and made sounds that almost resembled terror. As soon as the man's head was level with his body, and both were laid out levelly, the Luxray dropped his boot and padded its way up to his head. The man was crying, doing his best to scream or move, but did not seem vaguely ambulatory: some part of me wondered if I had not accidentally severed his spinal cord with that last strike. I watched as the poke examined the man's body, almost as if attempting to decide the best place to begin, before seeming to come to a decision.

The Luxray placed a single paw on the man's throat, and pressed. The throat muscles under the paw struggled and twitched, attempting to force air down the esophagus and into the lungs, but to no avail: his breath could not circumvent the paw that was forcing closed the airways.

It took the man five minutes to die of asphyxiation; five long, painstaking minutes that left me tenser than most springs. Five minutes during which, the Luxray never once looked away from the man's face, seeming to take no small amount of pleasure in the action. Eventually, however, the spams and twitching died down as the blood began to run out of oxygen and systems began shutting down. Throughout the length of time, I watched the Luxray's expression closely: while previously it had nearly been smiling, its expression was now a mask of concentration as it seemed to be determined to observe every instant of this man's slow death. Even the poke's blinking seemed to have much longer delays than was natural.

While I observed this spectacle, my mind worked: a mystery device, obviously electronic, that the man, who was of higher rank than anyone else in the small squad, had attempted to utilize in a way that bore similarities to how one might use a gun. The Luxray's clear and blinding hatred of this man, more than qualifying as a vendetta, perhaps even making that particular description an understatement. I shot a glance towards the poke's neck, and there it was: a band of silver that stood out against the surrounding fur. An enforcement band.

I had only read of such things: enforcement bands were used by JUR and UA militaries to enforce obedience with poke, sentient or not, as well as humans. There were a wide range of types and models, ranging from those that elicited behavior under threat of electrical shot to those that triggered explosives when activated, beheading the wearer. However, this specific manner of collar was specifically designed for electric types intended for military service: utilizing blades and needles, as well as small caches of drugs built into the collar itself, it caused incredible pain on command. As an additional feature, it was capable of connecting small command units to cortical or neural implants in order to relay instructions and orders, the carrying out of which it would have enforced with pain, which would increase in magnitudes the longer the host refused to carry out said orders. The collar could also knock its host out completely, and often contained fail-safes if other methods of coercion failed or, if the host was electric-type, execute the wearer nigh-instantly if the implant was fried or damaged in any way. Judging by the facts present, I would guess that the man in question was the Luxray's assigned commanding officer- for some time, in fact- and had utilized the enforcement band enough to instill this much hatred and anger in the Luxray.

This was revenge. Months, maybe years, of anger, resentment, hatred, all bottled up, and this was their revenge. A slow and painful death for the captor, plenty of pain and terror before the Luxray could finally watch the light leave his eyes. No matter the consequences, this was probably the best that the poke had felt in a long, long time. I only wished that I could have been so lucky.

So I watched, and did not interfere. I watched as the last bits of life left the body, counting to a total of seven minutes: four minutes without oxygen may or may not cause brain damage, and after six the brain begins to die. After seven minutes without oxygen, the brain is dead or might as well be.

The Luxray, recognizing that they had held the man's throat closed long enough, lifted their paw and stepped back before sitting on the linoleum floor. Then, he spoke.

"Is he really dead?"

The voice was decidedly male.

"What do you mean?" I said. I did not relax just yet. One officer killed does not a friend make.

"I just- I can't really believe…" he trailed off, and seemed to think for a moment. "It felt too easy. Too simple."

Paranoia. I could sympathize with that. Keeping a wary eye on him, I approached the body of the officer, crouching down next to his head and placing my paw on his chest.

"Well, he's not breathing."

I moved the paw up to the side of the man's neck, feeling where I knew the carotid artery to be.

"No pulse."

I swept up the face and placed my paw over the right eye, waited fifteen seconds, then removed it. The pupil was slightly dilated, larger than it would have normally been in this well-lit hallway, but not as large as it should have been when reacting to complete darkness. I turned my paw and prodded the man hard under the chin, in the soft area where the bone had broken. No reaction, though the pain would have been excruciating for any person.

"Loss of autonomous reactions to external stimuli." I wiped my paw almost unconsciously on the man-the corpse's-uniform, then stood. "For all intents and purposes, he's pretty much dead. If he was defibrillated successfully, right now, the best-case scenario is he remains a catatonic vegetable for the rest of his natural life." I fixed the Luxray with a gaze. "I suppose there isn't really any love lost between you and the JUR?"

He scoffed, which was quite the strange thing to watch happen. "Arceus, please: half the people in this facility, including yours truly, would give you directions to the nearest cache of weapons if they could."

I blinked. "Half? Why?" He gave me a look, and I held my hands up. "Look, I've not been in contact with anything resembling society for quite a long time. Not really much of a chance to get news when you've buried yourself under a rock."

The Luxray nodded, then stood and placed his front paws against the side of the corpse, pushing with his back legs. "Help a poke with no hands, eh?" he grunted. I picked up the body and slung it over my shoulder, letting out a slight breath of air as the weight settled in. "There's a storage closet that we can hide them in; last-"

"Last door on the left, got it." I said. He nodded.

"In any case…" he said, "things have been getting consistently worse between the JUR and the UA. From what I've overheard, both sides have resorted to raiding houses and grabbing randoms off the street in order to bolster their flagging man-power: anyone with any sort of command or firearms experience is fast-tracked to officer, and anyone else is sent to the front lines-the meat grinder." He approached the soldier with the insulated armor, again setting his front paws to the task. "It's gotten to the point-umf-that actual trained soldiers have been reassigned to be officers on the fronts, away from-grk-away from installations such as these." With some minor difficulty, more due to his lack of digits than any lack of strength, the Luxray managed to get the body rolling. "Population's hovering at about forty-forty five percent to fifty-five percent, enforced to voluntary soldiers. One of the purposes of this facility in particular is, if anything I've been hearing is right, to research a more fool-proof method of enforcing than the collars. There's been particular mention of the same implant that helps drive the commands home in poke, adapting it and making it suitable for humans as well."

"I suppose that explains why your squad was not alerted to my presence. An impending ambush should have been rather obvious when one possesses the ability to see through walls."

His grin was positively wicked. "I have no idea what you mean."

I tapped out the combination for the door with my left paw, then held the door open as, with no small amount of difficulty, the Luxray grabbed the man by the boots and dragged him into the back of the storage closet, before dropping him with a sound of disgust.

"Shoe leather is, quite possibly, one of the worst things I have ever tasted. Not the worst, but I can say that it is definitively in the top ten." He commented.

I dumped the body of the officer directly on top, then crouched down next to it.

"How is your collar locked?"

"Nine digit numerical code." He moved his head to the left, revealing a small numerical pad built into the side of the collar. "They needed so many of these collars that many of us received early prototype versions, complete with lesser security. The newer versions have biometrics and fingerprint scanners in addition: basically, the buttons scan your prints and physical status while you type in the code. If you get the code wrong, your fingerprints aren't in the system or you register as less than alive, even only unconscious, alarms go off all over the place."

"A moment." I began pawing through the pockets of the officer in question. A radio-which I promptly turned off, identification cards and security passes-which I took-and, finally, a wallet. That last I looted for all it was worth: it lacked any sort of electronic cards, but did have a couple hundred in bills, which I immediately confiscated. It was, to say the least, unlikely that he would have any more use for it. In one of the pockets, however, was tucked a small sheet of torn sticky note. Written on it was a series of nine digits, scribbled on the folded yellow paper with black ink.

"Here we are. I doubted that that sorry bastard actually managed to memorize the code." The Luxray stepped closer, giving me better access to the pad itself.

"Jack."

"Hm?" I replied, concentrated on typing the code correctly.

"It's… Jack."

I nodded. "Vy." I entered the last number-a five. There was a small, barely audible click as the locks disengaged, followed by a definitely audible clunk as the collar fell off. The Luxray, Jack, stretched his neck and rolled his head back and forth for a moment, clearly enjoying the newfound freedom.

"Alright then, Vy." Jack swept past me, and out into the hallway. "Shall we do some damage?"

"Oh, we shall."


End file.
